Page 61 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Twenty-Four

ELIZABETH

“I ndians!” Jules’ voice was a guttural bark, ripping through the night like a shot. Fear and urgency bled into every syllable as he lunged for his rifle, propped carelessly against a nearby tree.

But he was too late.

A swift and silent warrior exploded from the darkness—a specter of death cloaked in moonlight. The silver glint of his tomahawk flashed once before it connected with Jules’ skull in a sickening crack.

He crumpled like a rag doll, no sound escaping his lips. Blood gushed beneath his head, staining the earth, while his rifle slipped from lifeless fingers into the hands of the attacker.

Mary’s scream tore through the chaos, high and shrill. My heart pounded, erratic and painful, threatening to rip from my chest. Fear seized me—paralyzing, suffocating—but the world offered no time for weakness—only flight.

“Run for the woods!” Widow York’s voice rang out like a gunshot, her figure darting past in a blur, her daughter clutched tightly to her side. They vanished into the black mouth of the forest, swallowed whole by the shadows.

Mary and I stood frozen, rooted in horror, as warriors surged from the trees.

Their faces were painted in streaks of red and white, their expressions unreadable and terrifying in the flickering firelight.

Guttural cries filled the air as they swarmed the flatboat, tearing through our supplies, smashing crates, ripping fabric, and splintering wood.

They were everywhere.

“Elizabeth!” Mary’s voice was high, panicked. She gripped my sleeve, tugging fiercely. “We have to go—now!”

I stumbled, disoriented, my legs leaden with fear. Together, Mary and I staggered backward—away from the violence, away from the wreckage of everything we had fought so hard to reach.

Away from the life that had, only moments ago, felt within reach—now smoldering, breaking, and lost to the river.

The warriors moved with terrifying ease, their cries loud and triumphant as they hurled our supplies onto the muddy shore. Jules’ hard-earned furs—his prized beaver pelts—were tossed into the water like scraps, floating away into the darkness, mocking the ruin left behind.

“Come on!” Mary’s voice broke through my daze. She tugged at my arm, dragging me from the horror. I turned my back on the flatboat, on Jules’ lifeless body, on the firelit massacre—and fled into the forest’s cold embrace.

Branches tore at our skin as we crashed through the underbrush, every step a desperate bid for survival. My heart slammed against my ribs like a war drum, echoing in my ears louder than our footfalls, louder than the cries of our pursuers.

These savages will kill me! The thought clawed through my mind, panic blinding me, images of painted faces and raised tomahawks haunting every step.

“Elizabeth!” Mary’s voice sliced through the dark, ragged with terror. “LOOK OUT!”

I barely turned before pain ripped through my scalp—a warrior had lunged from the shadows, his hand twisted in my hair. I screamed, stumbling backward, his grip yanking me off my feet. The stench of sweat and smoke clung to him as his face loomed close, eyes wild with fury.

He spat, the hot saliva striking my cheek like a brand of humiliation.

I froze, shock and terror locking my limbs, my voice strangled in my throat. Helpless.

The forest spun around me—night, branches, firelight, his hand like iron. I thought of Mary. Of the child growing inside me. Of Amir.

And I refused to die here.

Time fractured, stretching thin, every heartbeat a thunderclap in my ears. Then—whistle, thud—an arrow sliced through the air, burying itself in the warrior’s throat with a sickening crack. His eyes widened, blood spurting in a dark arc across my dress, warm and jarring.

His grip loosened. He crumpled to the earth.

I collapsed beside him, hands clawing at dirt, gasping, retching, scrambling. Terror filled in my veins like fire.

Screams—my screams—ripped from my throat, wild and raw. Around us, arrows hissed through the air, finding their marks. Warriors fell. Chaos erupted anew.

Another tribe had come.

No cries, no warnings—only the snap of bowstrings and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the earth.

“Elizabeth! We must go! NOW!” Mary’s voice was a lifeline, her hands seizing mine, dragging me up. We ran, stumbling over roots and rocks, ducking beneath branches, zigzagging through the trees like hunted animals.

Where was the widow? Alive? Dead? There was no time—only escape.

Then—movement. A warrior surged from the dark ahead; muscles coiled to strike. Mary screamed—but her cry was cut off as he tackled her to the ground.

I spun toward them, heart in my throat. “MARY!”

Another figure darted from the shadows—silent, swift, deadly. Long hair trailed behind him as he closed the distance in an instant. His blade flashed—once—and buried itself in the attacker’s back.

A gasp. A gurgle. The warrior collapsed like a felled tree.

Mary crawled backward, eyes wide, face as pale as bone, trembling. The stranger turned to me, his gaze keen and assessing.

Not an enemy.

But… who?

“Shh, don’t be scared,” the long-haired warrior said, his voice low and strangely soothing in this setting. He knelt before us, extending a hand—not as a threat, but an offer. His eyes, dark as onyx, were gentle and warm. “I’m here to protect you. Don’t worry—you’re safe.”

His words pierced the chaos. English. My breath caught, confusion rising through the fear like a wave.

Did they speak English? My mind reeled. These were Indians—savages, my father would have called them—yet this man’s speech, though accented, was clear and comprehensible.

They weren’t what I had been led to believe.

They weren’t mindless warriors or wild men.

This man’s voice carried understanding, and something that unnerved me more—intelligence.

Mary and I clung to each other, tears streaking through the dirt on our cheeks, as this enigmatic figure stood guard—a solitary flame in a night gone mad.

The world spun—a blur of shadow, firelight, and the clash of hidden combatants. My breath came in ragged gasps, my heart pounding like it could break free. Mary’s grip on my hand was iron; the terror in her eyes mirrored in mine.

“Stay close,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, fragile and frayed. She nodded, her eyes locked on the man who had appeared like a specter—and saved us.

The warrior stepped closer, his long, dark hair catching the firelight. “No need to fear me,” he said again. His English wasn’t perfect—rough-hewn and shaped by a different tongue—but I understood him clearly.

“I am Dancing Fire,” he continued, touching his chest. “This is my cousin, Sky Raven.” Another man stepped from the trees, silent and intense, eyes scanning the darkness.

I could hardly speak. I had expected grunts, foreign words, not this—this man speaking with clarity and purpose. My world, already overturned, tilted again. Everything I had been taught about Native tribes was crumbling under the weight of truth.

Dancing Fire crouched in front of us, his gaze locked on mine. “What are your names?”

Paralyzing terror gripped me, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a trapped animal’s desperate struggle.

Mary and I stood at the forest’s edge, its towering trees cloaked in a dense, unsettling fog.

I locked eyes with her—her pupils blown wide with fear, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

Her terror matched my own, palpable and suffocating.

“We are from the mighty Sioux tribe.” Dancing Fire stepped forward, commanding but not threatening. “Those bastards—Kiowa—are our mortal enemies. Treacherous, violent men.”

His gaze flicked between us, unwavering and sincere.

“Do not be afraid. We came to protect you. If we hadn’t arrived when we did…” He paused, his jaw tightening. “They would have defiled you, scalped you, then left your bodies to rot. Our people value peace above all else. We must defend those who cannot defend themselves. Please—do not fear us.”

His voice, fierce and reverent, filled the silence, and with it, the weight of the moment shifted.

I gasped, my breath shuddering as relief mingled with disbelief. These men—these warriors—had saved us. My voice trembled as I stepped forward, forcing the words from lips still numb with fear.

“My name is Elizabeth Alexander,” I managed, the syllables feeling foreign and fragile in this vast, unfamiliar wilderness. “And this is my dear friend Mary. We hail from England.”

The words hung between us, as fragile as spun glass, a thread of trust extended to strangers in a world turned upside down.

Dancing Fire’s expression softened into a smile—warm, genuine, and so unexpected that it eased the iron grip of fear on my chest.

“It is an honor to meet you both,” he said kindly. “Please, come with us. I must bring you before our great chief and council.” His invitation was free of command, steeped instead in respect—and something else I couldn’t yet name.

Still stunned, we followed them, the only anchor in a night where everything familiar had been torn away.

The riverbank unfolded before us, silvered in starlight, lined with birchbark canoes that looked otherworldly against the mist curling off the water.

The world was a dreamscape of shadow and motion, and yet, Dancing Fire and Sky Raven moved with a certainty that defied the darkness—as if the forest and river belonged to them alone.

Dancing Fire extended a hand, guiding me to one of the slender vessels.

“Careful,” he murmured, steadying my arm as I stepped inside.

His touch was light and respectful—a balm after the brutal violence of the Kiowa.

I offered him a faint nod, unable to find words for the gratitude stirring in my chest.

Under Sky Raven’s watchful gaze, Mary found her seat in another canoe. Our eyes met—haunted, weary, but alive. That, for now, was enough.