Page 71 of Bitten & Burned

Another shape ran past, the air displaced by its speed, and in its wake came Dmitri, eerily silent and unstoppable.

He caught his target mid-stride and tossed him like a ragdoll, the body hitting the ground with a bone-snapping crunch.

Dmitri didn’t linger; he was already moving, already hunting the next.

Suddenly, a hand closed on my arm, making me flinch, but when I turned, my tension eased.

Quil.

His grip was firm but not painful, his fingers grounding me.

“Shh…” He angled his head, eyes scanning the dark. Then, without warning, another one of them exploded from the blackness, claws bared, snarl ripping the air apart.

“Don’t fucking start,” Quil growled, his dagger flashing silver in the fractured light as he met the lunge head-on.

One slash, two, then a third—each cut carving into the attacker until he stopped advancing.

The man staggered, choking, and collapsed to his knees at Quil’s feet.

“I said, don’t start,” he muttered, his voice cold enough to frost the air.

We continued, Vael and I, moving steadily toward the looming front doors of Dun Drummond. The manor’s silhouette rose out of the darkness, but we weren’t even close yet. There was still a long stretch of gravel and lawn to cross.

I sighed, the sound catching on my breath as my leg throbbed harder, a deep, pulsing ache that made my stride falter. “Fuck,” I hissed, the pain spiking enough to grind me to a halt.

“What?” Vael asked, turning sharply, but he didn’t have to bother with the question because his nose had already caught it.

I saw his expression tighten in the dim light just before the sigil flared again, the searing burn almost knocking me sideways.

It was bleeding again. Gushing now. The scent was sharp and metallic.

It spilled into the air like a beacon, overpowering everything else.

Vael moved toward me in a blur, ready to scoop me up, but before his hands could close, something else seized me from behind. My knees buckled, and my face slammed into the cold, unforgiving ground.

Pain radiated from my chin and mouth, back down my neck.

I grunted, the sound torn from me as my teeth cut into my lip, tasting blood while I was wrenched backward, dragged off the path and into the terrifying darkness beyond the lantern light.

Maniacal laughter erupted around me, overlapping voices in different pitches. High, low, broken, but all wrong, all feral.

Hands came from every direction.

Grasping and squeezing.

Nails digging into my skin.

Yanking hard enough to tear fabric and scrape flesh.

I fought to keep my footing, but the press of bodies drove me off balance. It was all I could do to bend, reach for the dagger hidden under my skirt, and slash at every hand that dared come close.

They screamed when the enchanted witchsteel broke their skin. The sound was sharp and wet.

One of them even struck me. A backhand full of rage—but before he could draw away, I caught his wrist with my blade. The hiss of the enchanted metal meeting blood was almost instant, followed by the satisfying sizzle that spread up his arm.

I grinned and felt my blood dripping from my mouth. None of them touched me anymore; all of them were writhing unseen on the ground.

They’d all die and no one would see. A befitting end.

Suddenly, a strong pair of arms closed around my waist, the grip unyielding yet careful, and I was lifted and carried away from the screaming heaps on the ground.

“You alright, Mishka?” Dmitri’s voice was a low rumble in my ear, grounding me.

“I’m fine,” I said softly, breath still ragged. “Thank you.”

It was quicker then. There were fewer Ashbornes to cut through; most of them had already come upon us and met their end.

The few that remained seemed at least a fraction smarter than the first because they retreated.

They were regrouping, not leaving—but for now, the pressure lifted enough that we had a clear path to the door.

“By Camarae’s shadow,” Vael muttered when he caught sight of me, closing the last steps between us. His hand came up, fingertips brushing over my cheek in a gentle sweep, like he needed the reassurance of contact. “Are you alright?”

I nodded, though my own hand rose, fingertips finding the swelling in my lip and the tacky, half-dried blood painting my skin.

Only then did I realize my entire face was streaked with it.

“I’m fine,” I promised, even if the words felt thin in my mouth.

Dmitri’s fingers brushed over my back, and I felt myself relax.

Vael studied me for a heartbeat longer, then gave a single nod, and we moved together again.

The closer we drew to the heavy double doors of Dun Drummond, the more my leg burned, each step sparking a dull ache deep into the bone. But we didn’t slow down.

From the corner of my eye, Anton appeared, falling into stride beside us. His coat was torn, his skin spattered, his hair and face nearly drenched in blood. It glistened in the lanternlight; some of it his, most of it not, and the sight sent a shiver straight down my spine.

Quil was limping, though I had no clear guesses as to why. His stride was uneven, his weight shifting slightly to the left, but he didn’t seem inclined to explain.

Cassian was flexing his hands as we walked, rolling his wrists and shaking out his arms like he was trying to cool down.

Dmitri rolled his shoulders and practiced a few swings with the axe, crossing in front and behind, stretching out his shoulders.

And Vael—Vael was still right at my side. Exactly where he’d promised he would be.

“Quil, are you alright?” I asked, my voice carrying over the crunch of boots on the gravel.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

A short huff of laughter. “You should see the other guy.”

That earned an actual laugh from the others, the sound ragged but genuine, and, for a brief moment, it felt like the battlefield was somewhere far behind us.

We moved toward the porch, slowing before the first step. Vael’s hands came up, warm against my chilled skin, running lightly over my face, brushing my mouth, his touch searching for injuries I might have missed.

Anton moved closer and examined my face, swearing under his breath. “I hope you got them back.”

“I did,” I replied, smiling. “They all died alone and in pain, in the dark.”

“Good,” Anton said, tucking a strand of hair out of my eyes. “So many treats for you when we return to Halemont, my wicked darling.”

Cassian dropped to a knee beside me, his gaze narrowing as he examined the sigil, before we finally regrouped and began the last few steps toward the porch.

The wards were flickering with faint ripples in the air, already noting our presence. The hair along my arms lifted, the magic brushing over me in soft, deliberate passes. It was not as if Silas wouldn’t know we were here anyway. There was no true element of surprise to be had.

Vael’s gaze swept the entryway, sharp and restless. “That’s not the real door.”

“What?” Cassian asked, his tone clipped.

I frowned, narrowing my eyes and following Vael’s line of sight. At first, I saw nothing unusual—just the heavy frame and the ornate wood—but then I caught it. The glimmer. The faint, unnatural sheen that didn’t belong. It wasn’t a real door.

“It’s not,” I echoed, my voice low. “That’s a trap.”

“What kind of trap?” Cassian pressed.

Quil groaned as if annoyed with the lot of us. He turned on his heel and strode back to where a body lay cooling on the ground. He bent, then hefted it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Carrying it up to the entry, he swung it forward and hurled it into the glimmering door.

The body vanished without a sound—and so did the false door.

I nodded. “Trap door. Probably ends up in the basement.”

“He had to have known it wouldn’t get all of us,” Anton muttered.

Nope, because that wasn’t what he was trying to do.

I shook my head. “Nope. Just the strongest. He thought he’d separate us. That’s the only way he wins—if he gets us… me… alone.”

“So where’s the real door?”

I couldn’t remember.

“Here,” Quil said, stepping toward a blank section of wall. “I remember the angle of the light when I took Rowena out last time.”

He pressed his palms against the stone, feeling along the surface until his fingers found a hidden seam. With a firm push, the illusion dissolved like smoke, and the true door swung open.

And there was Silas—standing directly in front of us, framed by the dark. His smile was slow and deliberate as he began to clap, each sound echoing in the still air.

“Very good, Ashborne,” he said, voice like oil over glass. “You brought her back to me. I told you she’d come back.”