Page 27 of The Dark Will Fall (Twilight Lake #5)

There was no end in sight, and the path grew less pronounced by the second. Finally, when another thorny bush swiped my legs, I slumped down against the nearest tree and cursed under my breath.

“I need to sleep,” I told Cormac, my eyes already closing.

The Mer did not argue. “I’ll keep watch.” He said, kneeling beside me. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and the warmth of his body leeched into my skin.

“Aren’t you tired?” I yawned.

Cormac didn’t answer. Or if he did, I didn’t hear him. Sleep washed over me quickly, so quickly I was barely aware of it at all, until I woke from the middle of a dream.

“Don’t move,” Cormac whispered through gritted teeth.

He had shifted my body against the tree and placed himself in front of my legs, crouched low.

“What’s going on?” I said as quietly as possible, taking a shaky breath before I wished that I hadn’t. The pungent scent of metallic blood tainted the air, thick with it. I searched the shadows for the source of the smell. Strange vines hung from the branches, bulbous and dripping.

Cormac held a flint stone, barely bigger than the palm of his hand, but it was the only weapon we had.

“Hag,” Cormac said plainly, answering a question I had forgotten I asked.

“What is that smell?” I covered my nose with my hand.

“Look at the trees.” He replied. “I’d bet my scales those are the innards of some unlucky soul.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but an eerie shriek of laughter interrupted my thoughts and sent a chill down my spine.

It came from the trees, somehow everywhere all at once.

“Hag?” I murmured, thinking of the Hags of Goren. They were Wild Fae, and the stuff of horror stories that parents told younglings to keep them in line. I’d never had any desire to meet one.

I gagged against the smell filling the trees. Steam rose from the strange vines hanging from the trees, dripping onto the ground. I held out my hand, and a drop landed on my fingertips. Blood.

“How did a hag decorate the forest?” I whisper-hissed. “Did you fall asleep?”

Krrreerssssshhhh .

The sound made my teeth feel like they were turning in my mouth.

Cormac remained as still as stone, his eyes flicking through the trees as he followed something I couldn’t hear.

I didn’t see her move.

One moment, we were alone, and the next, Cormac slashed diagonally—the flint in his hand formed sparks as it met resistance.

The Hag danced away. Her body was a bundle of rags, bunched up and sewn together with no rhyme or reason. Her face was hidden amidst a nest of dark hair, save for her red eyes that glowed in the moonlight.

“Beautiful skin...” The hag crooned; her teeth were sharp, and her tongue was long. “I’ll add it to my coat... Oh yessssss... A fine addition.”

“You aren’t getting anything, Hag.” Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “Turn around and go, and I’ll let you live.”

The hag ignored him, lifting a clawed finger to her lips. “Scarred. On the chest. What a way to ruin good skin...” She murmured to herself. “Maybe the back... Though I bet they’ll taste just fine...”

Cormac adjusted his stance. “Is she talking about you, or me?” He asked.

I shrugged. “Both of us have chest scars.”

“A matching pair.” He smiled wryly.

The Hag curled her fingers, forming claws, as she darted towards us.

Her fabric body flapped in the wind, but didn’t hinder her speed.

The beast moved too quickly, striking Cormac’s flint knife again.

Cormac cursed, kicking the Hag in the chest as he was forced to the side.

The Hag had a clear view of me, her claws flashed—and I noticed the strange texture and color.

A line of blood marked Cormac’s cheek, and the scent of iron and blood formed a foul patina on my tongue.

“Her claws are iron!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet. I clutched the Dadga’s staff in my hands—no more than a foot in length, formed of burnt and twisted wood.

It felt lifeless in my hands. As if it were just a twig I had picked up in the forest. There was no water, only blood.

I had only ever controlled blood that was inside a body.

Every drip from the innards hanging from the trees was too old, too viscous to grab hold of.

My magic scarpered in the presence of fear.

The Hag slashed at Cormac again, her nails scoring his wrist as the blow sent the sharp flint tumbling across the forest floor.

She reached out, her hand forming a necklace around his throat, lifting him from his feet, though she was a head shorter than he was.

I saw the fabric of her body. Skin. Different shades and textures.

I saw red.

My feet moved before my brain caught up. My hand tangled in the snarls of the Hag’s hair, and her sharp teeth missed my arm by a hair. I wrenched her head back, but her grip on Cormac’s throat did not break.

The staff grew warm in my hands. Too hot to hold.

A familiar voice entered my skull.

Filling me with dread.

The voice of the High Throne.

Blood... Kill... Mine ?

The staff was asking permission.

“Yours,” I said through gritted teeth. It took more strength to keep hold of the staff than it did to wrangle the snapping hag.

My body flew backward, pushed by a warm wave of liquid.

Rotting flesh. Blood and iron.

I opened my eyes and wiped the iccor from my face. The hag was gone. The staff was cold again.

Cormac was covered in blood from head to toe. His eyes and mouth were the only features I could see, as slashes of white that broke up the unending red.

I searched for a sign of the hag, but all that was left were the iron-tipped fingers on the forest floor.