Decimate

by D. Fischer

  “I will always love you,” I whisper.

  His eyes snap open, and his face hardens. I study the orbs of hell unflinchingly, knowing this is just a mask – a cloak for what truly lies underneath. “How? How do you not fear what I am?”

  A small smile graces my lips. “I don’t think I could ever truly fear you even if I tried. I fear your appearance, but not the man himself. I think -” I stop, my eyebrows pulling together. “I think, even if you drained my body of fear, I would still trust you with my life.”

  I reach to swipe away his lava tears but instead trail my thumb along the path of them. “You are my other half, Aiden Vander. I never understood what that meant until I met you. I never thought this kind of love and devotion was real, yet here I am, clutched in its grasp to a creature never meant to feel it. You were a ghost, then a spirit trapped in a void, then born a third time as a demon. I find it . . . funny . . . that I – a believer of science – fell in love with such an anomaly, such a fairytale, and chose to believe in everything it represents instead of running from it or attempting to prove how it couldn’t be possible. With you, nothing is impossible.”

  “Don’t joke about this, Eliza.”

  “I’m not.” I move my hand to cup his cheek. “What I say is real, Aiden. What I feel is real.”

  He exhales slowly, and several emotions flicker across his face as he searches for truth. I lick my bottom lip and Aiden’s gaze flicks to the action, his internal torment visibly weakens.

  Standing on my tip toes, I trace my other hand back up his arm and wrap it around the nape of his neck. I gently tug, pulling his body closer to mine. His warmth seeps through my clothes as my breasts press against his chest. Under that smell of consuming fear, of a struck match, is the scent of Aiden. My Aiden.

  “Aiden,” I whisper. “Nothing you say, nothing you do, no matter your appearance, will change how I feel about you. Nobody can take that from me, nor from you.”

  My words reach him on a deeper level, and his resistance to my pull shatters. His muscles slack under my hands. Quickly, he dips his head and captures my waiting lips as though I’m the oxygen he desires most – pure and crisp relief to his building anxiety of possible denial.

  The kiss is frantic yet gentle like he thinks I’ll break under the weight of it. It’s salty, bitter, and different with this new texture of skin. But the movements are practiced and familiar, and tears swell under my closed eyelids, leaking down my cheeks. The dampness mingles between our skins, our touch. Our non-verbal claim to each other’s heart. He can’t deny himself what I offer any more than I can resist him.

  I respond in kind, and our tongues dive into each other’s mouth, tangling in a dance I know so well. It feels like a thousand years since we last had a moment as this and my heart wallops rapidly against my ribs, a ballad of feelings mounting through my veins and alighting every nerve until my entire body tingles with an undercurrent of fervor.

  Wrapping his arms around my waist, he lifts and curls my legs around his hips, tucking the backs of my knees tightly around him. I mold to his body, every part of me made to fit to him perfectly. I deepen the kiss at this higher angle, using it to deliver a message of my true desires, of all of the things I feel that the English language can’t accurately describe. He lowers himself to his knees.

  Aiden is the percussionist of my heart beating against my ribs like it’s trying to break free of its prison to sing only for him. He will always be the man I long for, even at such intimate proximity. I’ll never have enough of him, not in this lifetime nor the next.

  Dragging his palm to feel each stroke of rocky flesh against soft skin, one of his hands leaves my waist as he steadies himself to lower my back to the fur. He pulls back, tilting his head as he studies and memorizes each curve and dip of my face. My hair is sprawled and tangles with the strands of fur. He tucks a few locks behind my ear, gently, sweetly, and affectionately. “I don’t deserve you,” he reminds me.

  And I spend the next hour reminding him how much I need him, how much I couldn’t live without him. Through joined bodies and gentle strokes and thrusts, we feed one another the comfort we can’t truly exist without.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DYSON COLEMAN

  GUARDIAN REALM

  It was a shock to hear of Erma’s death. I still tremble from it. I was terrified the shift in the atmosphere was Kat’s death, but since I’m linked to her, that notion quickly fled. If she’d died, I would have, too, along with the sandman. He spent this time distracting a gaggle of tiny toddler elves on the other end of the field so they don’t have to witness their mothers crush under the weight of today’s events.

  The announcement of Erma’s death distracted those who had refused to let me go to the battle, and despite my grief for the lost life, I was grateful for it. I only desire to fight by Kat’s and my friends’ side. I’m only one wolf, but even one strong-willed, determined person can change the outcome of any war. That battle may not be over yet, and I’ll be damned if I have to stay behind, ignorant to what’s happening to my mate.

  Once I was fully submerged by the snowcapped trees, I had turned and barreled toward where my heart tugged, where it feverously fought in my chest to go. I had been able to hear the cries of battle far off in the distance. But now, as I leap over each fallen log, duck under every nuisance of a branch in my haste, it’s dropped to eerie silence as if the animals mourn the many deaths they witnessed today. Do they feel the death of their creator and the rise of another?

  Tugging the fur blanket tighter around my shoulders, feeling the ends whipping at my calves, I weave between a close bunch of trees and jump over a snowy boulder. My wolf reverently urges to take the lead. He wants to allow the shift, but I’m not walking in there on all fours until I know the situation. If only Katriane and I were mated, I could have the mating bond to rely on for comfort – for both him and myself. Without it, my movements are hurried and clumsy, and I stumble several times.

  A typical shifter’s mating bond is strong. We’d be able to feel when the other was in danger or in pain, and we’d be able to communicate telepathically. Unfortunately, Kat and I are far from a full bond. Since I’ve woken, though, I’ve felt her acceptance that perhaps I truly am the one for her. It felt like a cool cloth to my chest, a tingle to my scalp. It’s the first stage of the bond, the last ending with true trust of giving one to the other - a bond consummated by forces of nature and the action of sex. I wonder how she would feel about that, being tugged into yet another commitment. She knows our ways or at least somewhat does. But perhaps, due to our difference in species, it’ll work differently between her and me. That thought gives me comfort for the coming days that maybe, just maybe, she’ll accept me fully in the end.

  I’m able to tell when I get closer to the edge of the forest. The stench of burning bodies wafts in a breeze which ducks through the trees and caresses my heated cheeks. Several trails of footprints have yet to be covered by a fresh layer of snow like they had been closer to the village. The snow doesn’t fall as quickly as it had there, and I can smell the greener scents of a warmer climate like the melting of winter in coming spring.

  Panting from exertion, I push harder toward the scent of death. Though my wolf coils from it, and skids to a halt when snow meets green blades of grass. The blackest of smoke rises to the gray sky, mixing with jagged clouds, and burnt patches of scorched valley stretch before me. An island is nestled in the middle. By the way it sits upon the land, I gather that it doesn’t belong. It’s as though a giant came along and placed it there haphazardly, a gift to the people at his feet. But there are no giants here. Magic, and a heavy amount of it had to be involved.

  Dead bodies, more angels than elves, lay messily across the field. Feathers carried in a humid breeze float gently back into the trees. The battle is over, dousing the fight I was mentally prepared for.

  The surviving warriors are gathering the fallen and situating them into a new pile of bodies, placing them upon it wit
h gentle respect. Kat’s dragon isn’t far, her large head tilted toward the island, seeking the peace and calm to the fire within.

  Seeing her alive and well, I breathe a sigh of relief. The strain of my muscles finally relaxes.

  Flint, Bre, Kenna, and Evo have already spotted me from the opposite end of the field. My scent must have carried to them, a different smell than burnt flesh. Together, their wolves – fur matted in blood – limp to my side as I slide from under the trees’ shadows. My skin is still chilled despite the fact that the weather immediately switches to a warmer climate once on the field. At any normal time, I would have marveled at the forest acting as a line of territory. Mere inches seem to indicate the immediate swap of weather.

  Flint’s wolf nudges my hip, a firm poke with a clear question. He wants to know what I’m doing here. Lowering my free hand, I pat his head distractedly. His fur coats my skin with black goop, and I internally cringe. He nips at my fingers, and unable to hold back any longer, I stride toward Katriane. My old pack trots behind me to keep up with my quickened gait. She seems herself, very much unlike when I found her in the forest after the other angels attacked the village, lost inside the darkness which consumed her. This is a good sign.

  As I approach, a limp body is being carried to a gathering pile, his middle drooping precariously before he’s laid gently on top of the other dead. The angel is missing several feathers, and every hole on his face - his eyes, ears, nose, mouth - are slick with a layer of his own blood. The black liquid still sluggishly seeps from them.

  “They were infected?” I ask, stunned. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Many were affected by the red dust which sprinkled the land, and by the tears not shed, I’m guessing this one was one of the enemies. But no one deserves that kind of death. The pain of it still echoes inside me.

  The nearest elf turns to me, one I don’t immediately recognize though that’s not a shock. It’s hard to tell each individual elf apart from the other with this species. Keeping track of their names is impossible, and I haven’t exactly made friends here like Sandy has. I haven’t had the time. My time has been consumed by my mate and her safety, and I don’t feel guilty about that. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to protect what’s mine, even when it’s from herself.

  “They were the ones who delivered The Red Death to our village when they attacked,” he says, flicking his long braided black hair over his shoulder with impatience as though he needed it out of the way to spit his words of venom. He appears exhausted with puffy skin above his cheekbones and strained lips. Blood covers his body, though not all of it is the enemies. As I watch, a gaping wound on his upper arm is knitting back together.

  Observing Kat’s dragon for a split moment, I see she feels the same. She sniffs the dead, tears welling in her impossibly large eyes. I wish I could carry her away from all of this. I wish I could remake the past so none of this happened. But Fate has a plan, and I must trust in it, trust that he knows what he’s doing and that all of this has a purpose.

  I don’t blame the elf for being angry, but I still bristle at the hostility. Death like this – war like this – shouldn’t be celebrated with hatred. Just as his friends, each one of the fallen had been loved by someone. Each of us should feel that loss despite our differences and prejudices.

  Looking away and to my left, I feel my jaw tick in irritation. A pack of glowing green prenumbras circle around a giant creature wrapped in thick white fur matted by black goop, pulling the aura from it with each limited breath it draws. The creature looks part ox, but even from here, I can tell it stood on two legs, and the fur adorning its coat is identical to the blanket covering my shoulders. Disgusted and feeling an odd affinity toward the creature, I take it from my shoulders and drape it over an arm. There’s been enough death today for me to not feel okay with being warmed by the creature’s kin.

  “How many are dead?” I ask to the waiting elf who watches me with curiosity.

  I swivel back to him, ripping my attention from one creature to the next, and catch the incline of his head. The sorrow is momentarily etched across his face, tormented almost before he masks it by hardening his muscles. Under all of the malice, all of the rage he feels for the events of today, he grieves.

  Turning back to Kat, he says something softly in his language. Kat’s large orange eyes meet his, and even though she doesn’t speak his language, she appears to know what he wants.

  Arching her neck, chest puffing and glowing with a building fire inside, she exhales, and billowing flames exit her mouth and cover the bodies. Rimming tears spill over, trickling down the scales of her jaw. The bodies immediately catch, the heat too great to disobey, and the grudging elf, my wolf friends, and I step back several feet as it grows.

  “The infected cannot have a proper burial,” the elf mumbles helpfully, standing beside me as we watch the tips of the flames rise higher, puffing black smoke to the gray clouds. “The chance the disease . . . it might spread quickly. It is not something we can afford to guess at.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek, tasting blood. “Would you have?” He looks to me, and I elaborate with a sweep of my arm to the crackling flesh before us which smells of burnt marshmallows. “Would you have given your enemy a proper final rest?”

  For a moment, we look knowingly at one another while he weighs his grief against traditional prejudice. “Yes,” he answers simply.

  I nod, satisfied that underneath his rough bravado and tough exterior, there truly is someone with compassion. It takes courage and heart to care for those who don’t deserve it even after death.

  Another elf approaches, lowering his bow over his shoulders, and mumbles words I don’t understand. I sniff and rub the edge of my nose, irritated that they aren’t speaking in a tongue all can understand. Brenna’s wolf pads forward and provides the comfort I need by placing her head against the side of my hip. I scratch her ear in reward.

  Kat’s dragon, still across the pyre, and the elf next to me meet each other’s gazes once more, and he nods his head. She grunts in response, smoke puffing from her nostrils, and then she bows.

  Slowly, she makes her way over to me as her bones begin to pop and crack, matching the sounds of the fire before her. As one, her body and each limb shorten. The scales slide back into her flesh, and her large snout pulls itself back to a normal nose. The wings along her back curl against her spine and absorb into her ribs until all that stands before us is the real Katriane DuPont, pink-skinned, short disheveled black hair, tattooed, and naked.

  Gulping, I avert my vision from her bare flesh, the parts I have yet to see by her own free will. I take the fur blanket from my arms and snap the folds free.

  With shaky fingers and a grateful, tear-streaked expression, she grasps the fur from my offered hand and drapes it over her shoulders. Once done, she lifts her eyes back to mine. They’re the last of the essences of her dragon to retreat, and slowly, the original color returns, swallowing the orange like a sink would drain water. Guilt hides there, and my heart thumps to the stitch of it.

  A reassuring smile pulls at my lips, a break to my serious face. I’m happy she’s physically fine, but sad she isn’t emotionally. I lift a hand and use the back of my index finger to trace the edge of her jaw. Her eyelids flutter, and a small grin is rewarded for my efforts – a wordless reassurance that this feeling will soon pass for her.

  “Are you okay?” I mumble, my voice deeper than I meant.

  She nods, and I cup the side of her cheek. The small smile shrivels, and instead, she sucks in her bottom lip and bites, my comfort shattering the emotional wall she built. A single glistening tear escapes her doe eyes and quickly flees to my fingers. When will she learn that she can’t hide from me?

  I bend and brush my lips against hers, tasting salt, soot, and blood. The world fades around me, the sounds and aromas with it until my only focus is the tiny, powerful woman before me. To my delight, she returns the slow, sensual kiss and sags into my hands, accepting what I wor
dlessly promise I can provide. She doesn’t have to do this alone. This crushing sadness isn’t something I’ll let her do alone.

  A yip sounds behind me, pulling me from deepening the kiss like I desire. Still bent toward Kat, I look over my shoulder and back to the wolves pulling for my attention. All four are standing there, impatiently pawing or stomping at the charred grass.

  “Another time?” she asks in my ear, a tinge of false humor to the promise in her tone.

  I look back to her, slightly groaning, and lean my head against hers. “I’m tired of sharing you with others.” And it’s true.

  There always seems to be a more pressing matter than our mating bond, and the way my wolf urges me to claim what’s mine is becoming difficult to resist. But I won’t push this. I want her to come on her own terms, to accept me on her own. I won’t force this on her. Just because she’s receptive to it now, in the heat of the moment, in the passion of the surrounding death, doesn’t mean she will be later. Grief can cause us to do odd things when clutched in its grips.

  She sighs and slides away from me. I drop my hand from her cheek, and sorrow replaces the momentary relief I had provided. Straightening her spine against the weight of her responsibilities, she turns to the waiting elf.

  “Are you sure this is all of them?” she asks.

  He tucks his chin, almost a bow, and his pointed ears twitch as he does so. I frown. When did Kat gain such respect from the creatures that were hostile to her from the beginning?

  “Good,” she answers, thick with authority, and then looks back to the castle nestled haphazardly in the grass, surrounded by chunks of freshly uprooted dirt. “Let’s go find Tember’s team then.”

  Minutes later, without a word uttered within the group, we’re inside the structure. Dead bodies are littered everywhere, and where a corpse doesn’t lie, scorch marks, arrows, and puddles of blood mar the black marble surfaces. It’s a gravesite, a battlefield that’ll go down in history. Pillars are uprooted, crumbled to the ground in chunks. We stand, taking in the massacre seemingly far worse in here than out there. In here, the stench of death is thick whereas on the field, a breeze could carry it away.