The Dark in the Wood - Part 2 of 2 (Tatterwing Book 2.5) by M.M. Stauffer

Author:M.M. Stauffer [Stauffer, M.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Dark Fantasy
Publisher: M.M. Stauffer
Published: 2016-10-04T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

Death’s Embrace

Medo didn’t remember deciding to move, but her body acted all the same, as if it wasn’t her own. A fresh leaf lay in her sweating grasp. The muttered Verse spilled free as she pressed her knee to Owyn’s chest, halting his struggle. She pulled the blade from the wound, spilling a fresh gout of blood from the gaping hole.

Even if the blade was small—no more than two inches of shining steel—it had done its work well.

Owyn choked, struggled to breathe. She held him fast.

Her fingers shone crimson as she kept the blood stave firm against his neck, slowing the spout of blood almost instantly. The trickle stopped and fresh beads of blood surfaced on the speckled leaf, letting her know the stave was fixed. Owyn’s eyes were bleary and slow, but his breath was still coming. He was alive.

She was aware of Rowan shoving her aside, thin white hands grasping and clutching. Rowan’s words were a fury of whispers, none of which made any sense. Marlin was shouting, trying to hold the Queen back, perhaps fearing she would only make things worse.

Medo didn’t know for sure. She only had eyes for one thing now. She heard the wet smack of fist on flesh. Sinder punched Grem again and again. His knuckles glistened and Grem gasped like a speared fish.

But it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.

She found her hands fumbling with her bag, racking a needle across the flesh of her nails. The acidic sting of her spittle was nothing next to the flame uncurling within her. The numbness was gone. She knew what she wanted.

Grem let out a gruff, silent choke as she slashed at his flesh. The old hands had been crudely rebound, and he could do little to shield himself. The swelling came fast, his bloated flesh pinching against the ropes. She was aware of Sinder yelling at her, of the feel of his hands on her shoulders, but she shook him off, slashing back with one hand.

Her fingers found the wrapped oilskin in her skirt pocket.

Death’s Embrace was there, waiting, as it had always waited. It seemed to curl into her hand, throbbing with a dull and sickly life of its own as she pried away the wrapping, kneeling on Grem’s chest to hold him. The fibers of the cloth seemed to squirm—to stir in some undetectable breeze—as she pressed the raw cloth into Grem’s blistered hand.

It only took a moment for the rag to bond, to take hold of him. Half a heartbeat perhaps. Sinder pried at her again, and this time, she gave him ground, ripping the rag away.

There was a nasty tearing sound as the fibers stretched to breaking, ripping some of Grem’s swollen flesh along with it.

He screamed as the blood ran, pooling in the creases of his palm, spilling over into the edges of the ragged cloth.

At the touch of blood, she knew for certain that she hadn’t imagined it. Somehow the rag could move—could creep, as if it had a mind of its own.

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