Willing Sacrifice
Page 4

Good. The last thing he needed was another distraction, and an unknown partner in combat was definitely that. The odd patterns on the lizard’s skin were more than enough to absorb his attention, especially now that they seemed to be moving faster under the flames coating its hide.
He kept backing up, drawing the beast away from the women.
The ground beneath his feet became softer. The humidity hugging his skin grew thicker. Shadows enveloped him, and heavy drops of warm water hit his bare shoulders.
He’d entered the edge of the surrounding forest. As thick as the trees were here, the lizard was going to slam its head into a trunk if it tried to come flying at him again.
The creature’s skin hissed as water dripped onto it, but the flames remained steady. There was too much humidity here for the brush to ignite. At least Torr hoped that was the case.
A thick black tree trunk loomed on his left. A low branch ran nearly parallel to the ground, supporting a rustic swing made from rough rope and a warped plank of wood. The tree’s metallic leaves reflected the firelight in a dazzling display of indigo and gold. If not for the hissing creature and its flaming skin and bone-shattering teeth, Torr would have found this place strangely beautiful.
He slowed to a stop, choosing a location just inside the tree line. The dense tree growth was going to impede his blade, but not nearly as much as it would the beast’s flying trick.
Torr charged, keeping his sword angled to fit between the surrounding branches. He went airborne at the last moment, avoiding the lizard’s open jaws as he leapt over its head. A razor-sharp tongue flicked out, slicing cleanly through the fabric of his jeans. He landed on the creature’s back, ignoring the searing lick of flame singeing his skin. All he needed was one clean blow—one single jab into the lizard’s brain and then he’d deal with his burns.
Staying atop its thrashing back, he gouged the tip of his sword right between the swamp water eyes. Rather than sinking cleanly through meat and bone, his blade merely skittered off the thing’s tough scales with a shower of greenish sparks.
No way was he going to be able to bash through that hide without a sledgehammer. He needed a soft spot.
The searing heat drove him off the beast’s back. He jumped up onto a low branch, out of the lizard’s reach. The tree swayed with his weight, raining fat drops of water that had pooled on leaves above him.
He swiped the water from his eyes and watched for an opening below.
The lizard reared up on its forked tail, obviously preparing to launch itself into the tree after Torr. He stood still, flexing his fist around his sword in anticipation.
As soon as the beast became airborne, Torr spun himself around the trunk with one arm, putting the solid girth of the tree between him and the lizard.
It slammed into the wood with a hard thunk, followed by a screaming hiss of pain. By the time Torr eased himself to the ground, the lizard was on its back, thrashing in the matted, metallic leaf litter that covered the ground.
He didn’t hesitate to take his shot, keeping out of range of that sharp tongue. He slammed the tip of his sword into the thing’s chest, feeling his blade shift as it slid between two ribs. With a savage burst of strength, he changed the angle of the sword and shoved it deeper into the lizard’s rib cage.
Thick orange blood poured from the wound. Its body convulsed, and the heavy forked tail hit Torr like a battering ram.
He flew through the woods a few feet before coming to a painful, abrupt stop against a tree trunk. His head rattled with shock so fresh that there was no pain yet. But it was coming. The wind was knocked from his body, and it was all he could do to still the panic of suffocation. Only the need to be sure the lizard was dead gave him the will to regain his feet.
The pain arrived like a speeding freight train—massive and completely unstoppable. A wave of dizziness caught him off guard. His eyes refused to focus enough for him to tell if the animal was moving or if it was just a trick of the eyes.
He stumbled forward, sword ready. His chest burned with the need for air. Pain radiated out from his spine and skull. His legs were strangely weak, reminding him of the time he’d been paralyzed and helpless.
Torr had promised himself he’d never be helpless again, yet here he was, falling to the ground, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it.
Chapter 3
Torr woke up inside a dimly lit hut with Brenya’s face hovering only inches above his. Even this close he couldn’t tell her age, but she looked older than when he’d last seen her, and more tired.
Movement within her eyes caught his attention, reminding him that this woman was neither Sentinel nor human. She was Athanasian—an ancient race of beings who’d birthed his kind as well as the Sanguinar and Slayers.
She didn’t blink, and he swore her irises looked exactly like leaden waves kicked up by a storm.
Like all the Athanasians he’d met, there was an unearthly quality to her—a kind of power that radiated out of her that he could only imagine possessing.
The disorientation cleared, and the spinning in his head slowed until he remembered where he was. “Did I kill the lizard?”
“Yes. We will eat well tonight,” she said, easing back out of his personal space. Bits of fur and feathers were laced through her long silver hair. It swept over his bare chest as she moved, and the branches of his lifemark—the image of a tree embedded in his skin—trembled in response to her power.
Torr’s stomach heaved, and he wasn’t sure if it was the thought of eating the giant lizard, the concussion or Brenya’s nearness that caused it. He swallowed down his nausea. “Is everyone okay?”
“Yes.”
“Even Grace? Is she alive?”
Brenya paused, frowning as if searching for the right words. “Parts of her are.”
He was stunned silent for a moment, trying to figure out if he was hearing her correctly or if his concussion was playing tricks on him. “Parts?”
“It is too complicated for someone of your limited abilities to understand.”
His mind went to a dark place where Grace’s body had been ripped apart, the pieces harvested for organs. While he knew that someone as selfless as Grace would have wanted no less than to save others in her death, the idea infuriated him.
His voice came out cold and edged with steel. “Then use small words.”
The older woman pressed her lips together in irritation, as if dealing with a whiny child. “I tried to restore her. Make her whole. But she had given too much of herself to heal you, and there was nothing more I could do.”