Page 47 of Fury

Don’t. Fucking. Miss.

He readied the blade.

Now.

The blade slipped from his hand and sliced through the air.

He didn’t wait to see if he’d hit his target.

Vann sprinted toward it.

The blade sliced into a wing, gouging a hole big enough to slow the thing if it tried to escape.

Sword drawn, he raised the massive blade over his head.

Knowing the creature would give him no mercy, he gave none.

Fluid in his arms, the blade one with his movements, he swung an arc straight for the neck.

The wyvern jumped back.

Vann adjusted his blow. Feet steady, braced for impact, he balanced a second swing off the momentum from the first.

Watery green blood gushed from the gash across its scaled abdomen.

The wyvern shrieked bloody fucking murder; the sound shattering into his ears, rattling his teeth, his focus.

Before his next blow could strike, like a blade made of serrated fire, a claw slashed across his back.

What the hell? He whipped around to see what had attacked him.

Swinging before he could even steady, he spun around and knocked into the creature that attacked him.

Another fucking wyvern, fighting alongside the first. Lexi wasn’t kidding about plural. Even trained, fighting together like this? Unheard of.

Not the time to debate demon lore.

He didn’t mess around. This time, he went straight for decapitation. Quinn’s favorite attack, and for good reason.

The blade sliced through the creature’s neck. The head toppled off, bright green blood spraying sticky droplets in a spiral.

A wet drop struck his cheek. His vest. His cargos. Like splatter paint from the eighties.

The other wyvern stalked him from behind.

He drove his sword back and into its chest. The creature collapsed, a green-soaked heap on the ground.

Fuck. The fight wasn’t that bad, but he burned where he’d taken the hit. He reached back, his own blood warm and soaking his fingertips.

Glad he’d worn the vest. The claw had only opened his shoulder, but it was down to the bone. Kevlar was dented from shoulder to waist. Would have been his spine, if he hadn’t had the extra layer.

Any deeper, and he’d be paralyzed for at least a few hours.

He created a waypoint on the GPS app on his phone.

Not nearly as fast as the way over, he trudged back to the car. Bleeding, aching, and looking like he’d been filming a zombie movie, he didn’t care that the sun sank, the moon rose, and then clouds blocked the light so he couldn’t see shit for the last of the walk back.

When he finally reached his car, he tugged off the ruined vest and shirt underneath it, and did a quick wipe down of his blades before stashing them back in the trunk. He could clean them better later.