SEVENTEEN #3
She tosses the bottle up and catches it again in a slender hand.
Her painted lips purse in thought as she runs an appraising gaze over Dante, inch by inch.
“But then again, you do reek of desperation. You’re no vampire lord, are you?
You’re just a ravenous boy. I’ve seen your kind before.
You think yourself a god, but deep down, you love being told when to kneel and when to rise, even if you won’t admit it. Don’t you, sweetling?”
“You know nothing, you stupid hag.” Dante’s raised voice cracks across the room. I don’t miss the way his lean frame is radiating tension, coiled like a spring.
The witch bares her teeth, a scoff clawing from her throat. “Mind your tone before I reduce you both to stone and take what I want by force.”
He rolls the hilt of his filigreed dagger across his palm with practiced ease. Every muscle in his body is wound tight, feet planted firmly in a staggered stance. “You want her so bad? Come and get her.”
My defensive posture falters for a moment, recognizing his body as the shield he’s offering.
Shielding me.
Clamping her hand around the bottle, the witch darts her narrowed eyes between us.
Before I can blink, the hag snaps her free hand up, fingers splayed like she’s grabbing the air.
A bolt of blue, flame-like power ignites from her palm, and she thrusts her arm out, driving the spell toward Dante.
It connects with his chest like a cannonball, throwing him back.
He narrowly misses me and vanishes from my sightline, colliding with a shelf with a deafening shower of fallen glass and leather-bound tomes.
Then she lunges for me.
She dodges the first swipe of my blade with unnatural speed. Inhuman. A slender hand seizes my wrist with shocking strength, yanking me forward. This close, I can see the fissures in her facade of perfect beauty—the bloodshot eyes, the faint odor of rot that clings to her skin.
The way she claws for me is nothing short of animal.
With a cry of effort, I drive my boot into her shin and follow with a pommel blow to the side of her head.
My victory is short-lived as she gathers another tongue of crackling blue flames in her hand, holding it just above my heart.
I falter and lean as far from it as I can manage, though her grip is merciless.
The fire should be close enough to burn through the delicate fabric of my nightgown, but miraculously, it’s cold. Not like snowfall but a hollowing sensation that swallows up all else in its wake. My blood curdles at the thought of what it would feel like if that thing pressed into my chest.
Movement stirs behind her—and then a large hand rips her away from me by a fistful of her long, silky hair. Dante corrals her against the mantle over the hearth, trying to seize the vial from her hand in the same motion. His other hand clamps around her neck, and he ducks toward her.
Wincing, I brace myself for the harrowing sight of him feeding again, but as he sinks his fangs into her neck, he does not drink. Dante rips a chunk of flesh from her body and spits it out on the floor.
He falters, gagging as though her blood is foul. “Fuck! What the hell is wrong with you?”
He doubles over in disgust while the hag screeches and presses a hand to her neck. Crimson ribbons through her fingers, soaking through the necklace of her dress. In her furious agony, she pitches the bottle against the wall, shattering it.
“Damn you!” she howls, her voice gurgling with blood.
Dante backs away beside me as the witch’s hands steeple together and summon a new spell—this one golden, making light bend and warp in its wake. The air shivers, charging with power.
He throws me behind him as though he might take the entire spell to his chest. He looks around wildly.
Our blades are of little use as the seconds close in.
The front door is out of the question. Even if I can make the sprint, Dante will burn alive out there.
A glint of metal catches my eye behind me.
The tea tray—it looks to be pure silver.
I dive for it, letting the coffee drench the table as the ceramic cup shatters when I wrench it free.
If silver is enough to slow vampiric regeneration, perhaps it can deter dark magic.
There’s no time for another plan. No time to get in front of him.
“Dante!” I shove the tray into his hand.
Without hesitation, he holds it up, ducking at the same instant the hag unleashes her spell. I grasp his waist, digging my heels in to brace us both against the blast.
A bolt of blinding energy shoots across the room and reflects off the tray with a warped sound. The witch’s agonized breathing is abruptly cut off as her own magic strikes her.
Dante drops the tray with a pained grunt, his hands an angry red from the exposure to silver. I step around him, cursing under my breath at the sight of the fallen witch.
Most of her body is stone, but sections of flesh seem desperate to hold their original form, leaking with blood against the diluted spread of magic.
It’s a disgusting blend of grey granite that merges with ripples of olive skin—a sight that might make the devil himself cringe in revulsion.
Her form twitches, stone rasping against itself.
She appears to be attempting to breathe, but the gravelly noises from her throat soon cease.
She is nothing more than a lifeless abomination of her own making.