The shifter managed to twist to the side at the last second, and the earth vibrated with the impact as the hoof thumped into the ground so hard it sank into the earth.
The wolf threw a punch, but the enormous minotaur didn’t even flinch.
Not willing to admit defeat, the wolf threw a right hook, smashing his fist into the creature’s snout.
That got a reaction—the minotaur’s bellow of pain trumpeted through the night, but instead of retreating, it only served to make the beast more determined to pound the wolf to paste.
The recruits were so shocked they remained frozen, the tips of their weapons lowered while they watched the fight. A second later, one of the men gathered his wits enough to lift his crossbow and took aim. Unfortunately, the arrow bounced harmlessly off the minotaur’s rough fur and pinged off into the trees. The beast’s mantle came halfway down his arms and stopped mid-chest, protecting his vital organs.
Infuriated at the attack, the minotaur twisted his head, aiming his horns to eviscerate the wolf.
In an awe-inspiring display of strength, the wolf grabbed the bull’s horns, stopping the forward momentum, the muscles of his arms bulging as he prevented the minotaur from disemboweling him.
But slowly, inch by inch, the horns descended, drawing dangerously closer to the wolf.
The archer was smart, aiming the next set of arrows at the lower portion of the minotaur’s human body, shooting one after another, almost faster than she could track, advancing with no sign of fear. Something about him drew her gaze and held it. Unfortunately, instead of creating a distraction, his efforts only enraged the beast more.
The horn settled against the wolf’s chest, and a grimace of pain twisted the wolf’s face.
Morgan couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
Without conscious thought, she palmed her knife and sent it spinning through the air at the only vulnerable spot she could find.
The blade landed true, sinking deep into the minotaur’s left eye.
The beast lurched backward with a roar, then wrenched the knife out and flung it away.
Unfortunately, his head was so enormous, the six-inch blade had failed to reach his brain.
But the distraction was all the wolf needed. He unsheathed his claws and slashed the minotaur’s human torso and legs until both men were liberally coated with the beast’s blood.
She gripped the tree next to her until her fingers ached, wishing she had her own set of claws to join the fray.
Only pureblood can choose between their human shape or their natural monster form.
Regrettably, she couldn’t change at all, but she refused to allow that to deter her. She just needed to be a faster, better fighter.
Unable to resist the lure to join the battle, she edged forward, only to pull up short when Ascher’s teeth sank into her pant leg, hauling her back to reality and away from the bloodlust taking over all rational thought.
It was one of the reasons she hunted alone.
When bloodlust consumed her, she was worse than any monster.
Then joining the battle became moot when the leader of the other team burst into view. He took in the scene at a glance, then picked up speed, and plowed into the minotaur.
To her surprise, instead of bouncing off the minotaur like she expected, the bull went flying.
The soldier reached out a hand and helped the wolf to his feet, then they both pulled out matching blades and advanced. A quick glance over her shoulder showed the elf had taken the kids to the side, then proceeded to lazily watch the battle, his weapons held casually in his hands.
Morgan turned to see both soldiers dance around the minotaur, their blades flashing in the dim light. Then the leader gave a nod, and the wolf launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around the beast from behind and tackling him to the ground.
The beast snorted at the surprise attack, then began to push up, his arms bulging with the strain under the additional weight. The leader darted forward to make the kill. Unfortunately, he didn’t approach from the bull’s blind side. The beast bucked, sending the wolf smacking into the tree hard enough it left the guy dazed, and he crumpled to the ground.
The leader persisted, deftly dodging the wickedly long horns. He attacked the minotaur with no wasted movements, his body sleek and magnificent, his speed incredible as he hacked away at the beast, avoiding the thick, nearly impenetrable hide. Watching the leader’s muscles flex and release became hypnotic, a complicated, lethal dance, and she leaned forward, fascinated by him despite knowing better.
The wolf finally pushed himself upright, shaking his head as if to clear it, and staggered to his feet.
He turned toward the elf and lifted an arm. The elf sighed, then flung one of swords through the clearing, the blade spinning end over end.
The wolf deftly plucked it out of the air, then strode determinedly toward the battle.
The leader saw the movement, ducked under the minotaur’s wild swing, and rolled out of range.
The wolf leapt forward, jumping nearly ten feet through the air, and brought up his sword.
The blade hit true, sinking deep into the beast’s back, punching clear through the minotaur’s chest.
Passing right through the heart.
The beast swung around madly, but the wolf had already sprung free.
The creature clawed at his back, frantically trying to reach the pommel of the sword, then flung his head back in defeat and bellowed in rage and pain. As he lumbered forward, his eyes latched on the leader. He pawed the ground, leaned forward, and charged.
The leader stood calmly while five hundred pounds of raging bull barreled down on him.
Waiting until the last possible second, he flung himself out of the way, his feet skidding across the dirt, then spun to face the threat, his blades ready…only they weren’t needed.
The beast had plowed into a tree, impaling his horn through the trunk. No matter how hard the creature pulled and jerked, the minotaur was stuck.
The leader got to his feet, grasped the pommel of the sword sticking out of the minotaur’s back, and pulled it free.
Blood and gore dripped from the tip, and the mighty beast fell to his knees, his shoulders heaving as he desperately struggled to breathe. Covered with sweat and blood, the minotaur gave one last bellow before the leader lifted the sword and beheaded him.
The body thudded heavily to the ground, and the corpse immediately began to decay, black goo oozing up through the skin until nothing but an inky puddle remained.
The process took only minutes.
The recruits began to cheer, and she allowed herself a small smile at their victory. When the two warriors shook hands, the smiled faded, and she couldn’t help feel a bit envious of their smooth teamwork.
When the leader turned, she sucked in a harsh breath as she got her first good look at him.
He was a little over six feet, lanky and lean, his frame covered in deliciously toned muscles, but it was his handsome face that hit her so hard her chest hurt—like a long-forgotten memory of something she’d dreamed, something beautiful that evaporated when she awoke, and left a nagging ache behind that wouldn’t be banished. His pale green eyes scanned the group, not missing a detail. They were hard and ruthless and spoke of danger, and a hunger she couldn’t identify swamped her.
She took a step toward him, craving just a touch, when Ascher wedged himself in front of her, nearly tripping her when he didn’t budge, and she glared at the hellhound.
The distraction broke the spell. She shook her head at her folly, not certain what came over her, disconcerted by her lack of control. Self-preservation took over, and she was eager to put as much distance between them as possible.
“Stay here. Watch.”
Ascher curled his muzzle in a silent snarl, his blue eyes disturbingly human as he studied her, his gaze knowing.
Morgan blushed even as her attention was involuntarily drawn back toward the clearing.
As if he sensed her reg
ard, the leader glanced over at her location, pinning her to the spot.
Despite knowing he couldn’t see her, she was caught by his piercing eyes, and her heart fluttered madly against her ribs. She took an involuntary step forward, drawn to the barely restrained wildness in him, when Ascher placed a possessive paw on her foot.
The hellhound was clearly disgruntled, his eyes narrowing on the soldier, ready to attack.
More unnerved than ever, Morgan backed away, trembling from the physical ache to join him. “Just keep watch,” she whispered to the hellhound.
She darted away before she gave in to the nearly overwhelming compulsion to throw herself at a complete stranger. Needing to burn off her troubling emotions, Morgan ran hard, pushing her body to its limit, but it did little to outrun her unexpected reaction to the group’s leader.
A pained yip from a dog echoed through the trees, yanking her out of her musings, the sound so unexpected, she nearly crashed into a tree. After she regained her footing, she altered course, her feet barely touching the ground as she dodged trees and fallen logs, eager for a fight.
She slowed as she neared where the sound originated, waiting for some sign.
Two minutes later, a snuffling noise, similar to a pig, came from her left.
The imp.
Her forgotten prey.
Instead of following the sound, Morgan veered right, and deliberately stepped on a twig.
The snap was like a crack of a shotgun in the silence.
A few seconds later, she heard the sound of pursuit.
Morgan reached into her pocket and took out the gaudy jewelry she picked up at a pawn shop, tossing a few pieces randomly in her wake. The brighter and shinier the trinkets, the more impossible it would be for the imp to resist.
A squeal of outrage nearly ruptured her eardrums.
Nothing maddened an imp more than to disrespect what he considered treasure.
Morgan slowed, then reversed her course, slipping silently between the trees…and caught sight of a small, barely two-feet-tall imp. The creature was rummaging through the underbrush. Large, bat-like leathery wings were tucked along his back, allowing it to jump to great heights, while its hands and feet were tipped with deadly claws. The tail lashed back and forth as he collected his bounty, the speared tip easily capable of slicing or piercing flesh. When it lifted its head, she spotted black, beady eyes, and a tiny, upturned nose so disfigured it appeared almost skeletal.
Its skin was as thick as a tire and just as hard to puncture. They were lightning fast, and could turn deadly when cornered. The small creature had yet to kill, so it was her duty to capture and return it to the void.
Morgan unwound the thin metal rope from her waist, creating a loop, preparing to drop it over the imp when the little devil’s head snapped up.
It spotted her instantly.
Some of the trinkets slid through its fingers as it stood immobile, then it squealed and darted off into the woods.
Morgan froze for a second in shock—an imp would never abandon his treasure.
Only when the little beastie disappeared into the trees did she snap back to herself. “Shit.”
Morgan surged after it in pursuit, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush.
She couldn’t let him escape.
He wouldn’t fall for her trap a second time.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard she pushed herself, the imp remained elusive. Every time she thought she lost him, she spotted the flicker of his tail or heard his distinctive, telltale snort.
The thrill of the hunt heated her blood, and she knew, even though she couldn’t remember her past, that she’d been created for this—the hunt, the chase. She was so focused on her task, Morgan lost track of her surroundings, until she was drawn farther into the woods than she normally wandered.
Her unease grew.
Something was off.
It took her a few seconds to realize what bothered her—the absolute lack of any animal chatter or buzz of insects.
Memories of mutilated animals and half-eaten pets flashed in her mind.
She’d assumed the imp was responsible.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
Morgan came to a halt, cursing herself for the rookie mistake of making assumptions.
The only warning she got was a slight burn of the runes carved into her back and shoulders.
She whirled, lifting her arm, then staggered under the numbing blow that was meant to incapacitate her. A bright lash of pain streaked down her arm, tearing open a ragged gash, and warm blood trickled down her arm.
Instead of facing off against a mischievous imp, she was confronted by a seven-foot monster.
The beast lifted inch-long claws clearly meant to slice his prey’s flesh from bone with one swipe, the tips darkened by her blood. He smiled wickedly, revealing three rows of serrated teeth, then slowly licked off her blood with a lizard-like tongue.
Hunger sharpened his features, his blood-red eyes shimmering in the darkness, devouring her with his gaze. The creature’s bulky form was pitch-black, making him almost disappear into shadows from one blink to the next.
Wraith.
Her mind immediately went through dozens of escape scenarios.
Unfortunately, none of them left her alive.
The problem with wraiths was they were made of shadows, and only took form when they attacked. Even as she watched, the shadowy creature began to dissolve.
She wrapped the thin metal rope around her fist, but knew it was a long shot. Her fists or weapons would pass right through him. If she had her sword, she might be able to take off his head with a lucky blow. The only sure way to get rid of a wraith was to send them back through the rift from which they emerged.
Too bad she had no magic to compel the wraith to obey.
That left her with only one option…negotiation.
“What do you want?” She relaxed her stance, her muscles liquid and ready to leap out of the way.
The wraith chuckled, his form floating a few inches off the ground as he circled her. “You.”
His voice should have sounded insubstantial, but it vibrated in her chest, the threat tugging at the runes along her shoulders. The wraith was at least three times her size, but thanks to her unusual inheritance, she was stronger and faster than most hunters.
The blood flowing from the gash on her arm became sluggish, the edges of the wound slowly closing.
Instead of killing her outright, the wraith studied her curiously, and the runes stamped along her spine chilled until her skin felt like ice, the magic sinking deeper into her body.
The urge to attack and rend him to pieces with her bare hands nearly overwhelmed her.
But she refused to descend into bloodlust, not certain she would be able to stop killing once she started, hyperaware of the soldiers still in the woods. She curled her fingers into fists, her nails biting into her palms, the sting of pain almost pleasure as she wrestled her body and emotions back under her control. She couldn’t allow anyone to discover she was different, or her dream of being a full-fledged assassin would never become reality.
She would not turn feral.
She cocked her head, studying her opponent as her heartbeat fell back to its normal rhythm. “The imp was a decoy.”
The wraith vanished and almost immediately shimmered back into view a few feet to her right, his teeth flashing in a gruesome smile, his obsidian skin glittering when he took shape. “I must say, I’m disappointed. Luring you into my trap was almost too easy. The whispers from the primordial realm promised a challenging hunt.” His heavy brows lowered as he hovered closer. “Though I am surprised you managed to eliminate the minotaur.”
Shock swept over her at the possibility of two warring creatures working together—to capture her. The cultured, exotic accent of his voice was completely at odds with his grotesque form. He made her want to forget the danger, made her want to lower her weapons and go to him. She rubbed her pounding temples, the pain hel
ping block some of the effects of his voice. Like a soulless monster, he used his compelling voice ruthlessly, hypnotizing his prey and luring his victims into the shadows and the arms of certain death.
Morgan ignored the tug in her gut, the craving to surrender, and instead concentrated on the magic flowing in her blood as it rapidly spread through her veins. A tug similar to the pull of a magnet came from directly in front of her.
Magic was attracted to magic.
The stronger the magic, the more intense the pull.
She might not be able to cast magic, but she wasn’t a complete null.
The rift was directly behind the wraith.
All she had to do was go through him to send the wraith back where he belonged.
Morgan narrowed her eyes, a deceptively simple plan forming, and she shrugged. “Well, I would hate to disappoint you.”
Instead of waiting for an answer, she charged him, bracing herself for impact.
At the last second, just as she hoped, the wraith shimmered and dissolved.
Morgan burst through his insubstantial form, her runes burning painfully at the contact. When she emerged from the other side, she struggled against the need to gag, reeling as the pain from the runes shot down her spine. A fine, acidic coating of clear slime drenched her from head to foot, little of her body spared the dunking.
A small blessing was it evaporated quickly.
The wraith spewed a series of curses in a garbled tongue that sounded vaguely familiar. Instead of slowing down, Morgan picked up speed, breathing through the already-fading pain, heading straight toward the rift. The closer she got to the void, the more her skin tingled.
The wraith shimmered through the trees in pursuit, his howl of rage reverberating through the woods, sending a shiver of dread down to her soul. The haunting wail was a war cry, the sound triggering a primal imperative to flee, and she fought the urge to run in a blind panic.
As long as the wraith didn’t take form, he couldn’t hurt her.
The wraith was a category four monster—strong, but not all-powerful.
Academy of Assassins Page 2
