Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 110080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
* * *
Fresh energy poured through Blythe, her wings flapping with new life. Not as much as energy and life as when she was fully charged on souls, but enough to get her through the death match.
Why had Penelope ceased feeding? Because her point had been made? Figure it out later. Blythe popped the bones in her neck and her shoulders, then cracked her knuckles. Let’s finish this.
She raced into the worst of the fray. Dodging blows, clawing when appropriate, claiming a plethora of fallen weapons as necessary. At some point, the internal tempest she’d experienced since her consort’s death faded. Old battle instincts overtook her, and oh, it felt good. Fighting as she was born to do. Taking down one enemy after another.
Sand flung from her boots, grains sticking to damp skin. Warm blood coated her hands. Tissue collected under her nails. Did a certain Astra watch her with his customary smolder? Or did he worry, as Laban would have done?
Anger accompanied her next strike, sending a witch to the ground, minus her intestines. Comparing Roux to her consort needed to stop. So did relaxing in his presence and seeking his embrace.
Two more combatants fell by her powerful strikes. Approaching her next target, she scanned the arena. Wow. The masses had thinned by almost half. Only six hundred or so remained. How much time was left on the clock? She’d lost track.
Eager to take out more competition, she picked up the pace and two short swords. One. Three. Five. Eight others went down. Man, she kind of adored the swords. Lightweight, with scale-like blades over the metal. Organs shredded at record-breaking speed. Maybe she’d keep the pair after the hostility ended.
She didn’t mean to do it, but she shot a glance up—and nearly ground to a halt as shock stole her breath. Roux didn’t watch her with worry. Not even a trace of it. Rather, it was pride that radiated from his muscular frame.
But that couldn’t be right. She—Blythe wheeled to the side as an Amazon caught her unaware, slicing the tip of a sword through her bicep. Deserved. Allow yourself to become distracted during a scuffle, and you welcomed injury and loss.
She rallied quickly, misting as the Amazon swung a dagger. Blythe solidified behind her attacker and used her short swords like scissors. Chop. Headless Amazon.
Sensing an approach from the rear, she misted again. The siren who’d come for her tripped over the falling Amazon. While the two went down, Blythe hacked off the newcomer’s head.
Each new victory put a spring in her step. With her next set of victims, she spared a second or two to take a bite of their souls before rendering the final blow. Those small nibbles added up, charging her up. Blythe began to cut through her opponents as effortlessly as butter.
Just as she raised her swords to take out a harpy—no mercy, even for her kinswomen—the horn echoed from the cavern walls. The combatants went still. Silence reigned. Well, as much silence as possible when so many people huffed and puffed from exertion.
Blythe scanned the competition, on the hunt for true threats. Her, her, and her. Respectively, a harpy she recognized as a legend of old, the Phoenix Roux had mentioned, and a former Amazon queen, judging by the marks branded into her flesh. All three glared her way.
“Congratulations,” Tonka called from the dais. Funny, but she didn’t exude as much joy as before. “If you’re still alive, you made it to round two. Which starts bright and early tomorrow morning. Tonight, you’re invited to a celebration party. Attend at your own risk. In the next round, things aren’t gonna be so easy.”
17
THE WRENCH
Roux paced inside the bedroom, waiting for Blythe to emerge from the bathroom. He did not wish to attend the celebration. He would rather spend the rest of the day locked away with her. They had much to discuss. His appointment with the wraiths. His duty. Tomorrow’s battle. What had happened at the well during their game of “sexual chicken.”
He bit his tongue to silence a grunt. When would she exit?
Lively music started up outside the window and cheers followed. The party was to take place right outside the palace?
Irritated, he flashed over to look out. Despite a dark, stormy sky, hundreds of females congregated below. Throughout the circle of silos, blazing bonfires popped and snapped, roasting meats and vegetables.
Cries of “Bring out Mr. Sausage Man!” rose over the music.
He worked his jaw. When the bathroom door swung open behind him, he forgot everything but Blythe. Roux’s gaze whipped to her. An automatic reaction. If ever she stood nearby, she held his attention captive. And no wonder. The sight of this woman.
His heart punched his ribs. Without the wraith draining her, she exhibited pure vitality. Long black hair hung loose, gleaming. Her baby blues sparkled, and her cheeks glowed. The ruby glittered. She wore a clean vest that pushed her breasts together with a single button and a short skirt. Multiple daggers were strapped to her thighs—visible through slits each time she took a step.