Page 24 of Stolen Threadwitch Bride
A scream ripped through me, then the world tumbled—dirt and stone and grass rattling my joints, slamming into my cheek, my hips, my knees and elbows. I tried to catch myself, stop my fall, but the ground was too steep and some desperate part of myself said I could fall quicker than I could run.
Then there was no ground, just air, but only for a split second before icy water closed over my head. It was in my mouth and my eyes, gurgling in my ears.
I flailed and kicked, seeking air and solid ground, lungs burning. Time was meaningless and I turned, weightless, airless.
Somehow, I found my feet and my head broke the surface. I sucked greedy breaths, head spinning. The frigid river only came to my waist, and I waded to the far shore. No sign of the creature yet, but it couldn’t be far.
Please, gods, say it couldn’t cross running water.
And how the hells had it loomed in front of me when I’d heard it’s steps at my back?
Shivering and dripping, I staggered onto the bank. I looked up and froze.
Something darker than shadows looked back, churning in cavernous, empty sockets.
It could cross the river.
I was dead.
Didn’t mean I’d go easily, though. Because all the fears I lived with, they were always for whatmighthappen, whatcouldbe. Thiswashappening. There was no room for anxiety about possibilities, only action, however final.
The thing regarded me, head cocking, but it didn’t approach. Maybe it could magic itself across water but didn’t like to touch it. I had no idea, but grasping at possible rules felt less helpless.
I backed away and my foot nudged something solid—a branch. That would do.
Armed with that, I bared my teeth at the thing.
Clack, clack, clack-clack.
Not from it; from behind. I glanced over my shoulder.
Another pair of empty eyes stared back.
Shit. There were two of them.
I was definitely dead.
My face and hands tingled, partly from the cold, partly from the energy pumping through my veins as if my heart agreed I wasn’t going down without a fight.
Something pale emerged from the shadows. Another of the creatures. Good gods, how many were there? On the bank behind, two more crept from between river-worn boulders. Five in total.
I pulled the branch over my shoulder, ready to swing. Backing away, I splashed up to my shins in the water and tried to keep all the creatures in view.
But I wasn’t a fighter. That was Rose.
I was a threadwitch. Although I liked walking through the hills and forests near Briarbridge, I spent most of my time on my backside sewing pretty spells into pretty clothes for people with more money than me.
Those white-fleshed thighs tensed and the thing in front of me sank, ready to leap. A low whine sounded behind me. They were coordinating their attack. Great.
As my arms coiled, a cool clarity came over me. Just one good hit. If I could get that in, I’d die happy.
Hells, I’d settle for a bad hit.
Its head twitched, and those bone-claws clacked together in a rapid chatter like it was excited. The others echoed that dry sound, so like a death rattle it shook my knees.
Timing—it would all be about timing. Too soon, I’d miss. Too late and there’d be no chance.
With the stink of rot, its mouth opened, wider, wider, wider, until those yellow teeth surrounded an eternal void.
