Page 46 of The Curse of Eternity (Descendants of Helsing #1)
“That’s why I’m here,” I murmured, watching the books on the shelves blurring from one title to the next as we passed them. “I share his blood, genetically speaking. So I can open the room to his chambers.”
“That is the assumption. However, if we are incorrect—” Unblinking, Drake turned in a blur. A soft thud reverberated, and I strained to listen while holding my breath. Then came the distinct whistle of scraping metal. Drake grasped my hand and whispered under his breath, “Run!”
On my first stride, I gripped the handle of my machete and pulled it free from its sheath.
My breath came fast while trying to match his strides.
Thuds grew louder, approaching in proximity despite our sprint between the lengthy rows of shelves.
We reached a crossroads, and Drake pulled me to a stop, then off to our right.
A figure stood at the end of the row. Drake’s arm flung out before me, forcing my aching feet to a sudden halt.
I turned to run back the way we’d come, but another enormous silhouette was stationed behind us.
Shit —they’d corralled us like cattle. Our noisy pursuer came up behind us, while their silent accomplice blocked any hopes of advance.
Hefting my machete, I bent my knees, readied for fight or flight.
With my back to Drake, I narrowed my eyes at the lone suit of armor ahead walking closer.
Their approach was unhurried, but I wasn’t going to bet their armor would slow them down by much.
The armored guard’s easy grace proved it was one of the three dozen cursed beings forced to serve the Domnitori’s ruthless regime.
Whoever inhabited this suit wasn’t like the lycans we’d faced before.
Effortless ease accompanied their long strides, but the shape of the armor was also different from the ones at the manor.
More streamlined, the chest plate narrowed at the hips above a metal-pleated skirt.
The helmet went unchanged, that same wrought-iron wolf’s head. What a sick joke.
Roughly ten feet away, the lycan stopped, staying well out of my machete’s reach. A shield on their left arm was engraved, the symbol faded past the point of recognition. The second guard must have stopped, too, since Drake hadn’t moved from his position at my back.
My grip tightened on the handle of my machete when the lycan behind me spoke. The dialect sounded familiar, their accent identical to Drake’s. While I couldn’t understand a damn thing, I didn’t need to. Drake answered for the both of us, his response so quiet I barely heard it.
“Now.” Then he sprang into action.
The crunch of wood being torn apart snapped my attention over my shoulder.
Books cascaded to the floor when the shelf holding them collapsed, the support beam now held like a deadly baseball bat in Drake’s capable hands.
In my peripheral, the guard ahead withdrew his sword, and I bent to grab a book.
Every part of me screamed blasphemy when I aimed my throw for the advancing guard.
The heavy tome wouldn’t do any damage, but the guard realized that too late.
Raising their shield at the perceived attack, it blocked the view of my actual assault.
Keeping to my right and its left, I darted out with a mostly-blind strike toward where I assumed their armpit was, aiming for the thinner chainmail beneath the armor with the point of my blade.
With Drake’s blood invigorating my strength, I managed to land with greater accuracy than I’d expected.
Fresh too-human blood spurted from the chink between the guard’s breast and shoulder-plate.
My hope that the pain would distract the guard enough for me to land another hit was sorely mistaken.
Emphasis on sore, because the asshole didn’t make a sound when they used their full bodyweight to ram me into the neighboring shelf.
Breath exploded from my lungs on impact, my back throbbing and fingers spasming.
I clenched my teeth and tightened my grip on my weapon, finding my footing when I dropped into a crouch.
The guard tried to hit me with their shield this time, but I rolled aside, missing the blow by inches in the cramped aisle.
More books fell from the shelves while the impact of the guard’s shield hitting the hardwood created a boom that echoed through the enormous dark library.
Shelves shook—unnaturally, like the wood itself was trying to bend back into its original place.
The guard turned, hefting their sword high just as I’d gotten one knee beneath me.
With my right foot planted and my left knee bearing my weight, instinct urged me to raise my machete overhead when the guard brought their huge sword down in an arc.
Overpowered, my left hand rose to hold my machete horizontal.
My arms shook while keeping the enemy’s blade on the central point of mine.
Blood slickened my left palm, cut by my own blade, but I couldn’t move under the weight of the pressure.
My shocked muscles left me paralyzed as the guard lifted their sword only to crash it back down.
A cry of frustration ground between my teeth as my upper body burned, my knee digging into the hard floor.
What the fuck did a girl have to do to get a little help around here?
As the guard’s blade rose high above their head, ready to slam back down for a third time, the floor beneath seemed to shift.
My knee rolled, and I gave in to the momentum while the guard’s sword fell—the blade slicing into the empty floor.
Utilizing the shelves for leverage, I pushed my resisting muscles to rise on the opposite side of the guard’s shield.
I raised my trembling arm, pausing when I found the guard’s sword end was stuck between the floorboards it’d pierced.
The guard heaved, bent over, trying to yank it from the spot, but the floor wouldn’t release it.
I hefted my machete, and the wolf’s head helmet faced me a moment before my blade skewered through the side of their exposed neck.
Gurgling followed the spray of blood where I’d separated the guard’s sinews.
Then I slashed downward, opening up the guard’s throat, and the helmet snapped against the backside of the armor.
The metal gauntlet clutching the stuck sword went slack, releasing the hilt, and the armored body collapsed, dead before hitting the ground.
Then the sword’s blade toppled over, its hilt inches from the guard’s lifeless fingers.
To the naked eye, the floor beneath appeared undamaged.
I blinked, but the sounds of a struggle not far off recaptured my attention.
Drake was locked in combat with the other guard, who had been joined by two others, now laying dismembered between the shelves while he faced the remaining lycan.
Horror swept away my initial surge of victory.
The nerves connecting Drake’s left arm had been severed, leaving the limb to hang limp at his side.
The sluggish step he took to evade the guard’s next swing of their mace meant he was losing too much blood too fast. Even with my blood fresh in his system, he’d need time to recover from a wound that severe.
Pages and bindings flew as the mace smacked against several books, the shelves too close on either side for the oversized weapon.
Drake stumbled over a torn-off armored arm, barely catching himself against the shelves opposite the advancing guard.
He was weaponless, with the support beam he’d torn away now wedged through a dead guards’ chest.
Without a second thought, I reached for the fallen sword beside me. My left palm burned when I grasped its handle. The guard raised their mace, gunning for Drake’s head.
“Drake!” I cried, catching his gaze when he glanced over his shoulder. Fear shone in his dark eyes, replaced by determination when I threw the sword.
He dodged the mace, and I exhaled when he caught the sword in his still-able right hand. Drake met the next blow of the battle mace with the sharp end of his stolen blade. I raced down the aisle, hopping over ripped spines and blood-soaked pages.
Raising my machete high, I leaped past Drake to bring my blade down against the guard.
My weapon met the resistance of steel, clanging off the enemy’s shield.
Now they had two opponents. The guard’s stance turned defensive, backing up several steps in less than a second.
Positioned before the guard, with Drake a step behind, I shifted my weight to my right heel.
Which helped me keep my balance when the entire library started to shake underfoot.