Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

outstretched and miniature mouths gaping with sharp, yellowed teeth.
    I dropped to the ground on my right side, tossed aside Fragarach, and curled into the fetal position, managing to throw a protective left arm across the side of my face and ear. They fell upon me, and their hands latched on to whatever they could and bit down with those palm-jaws like lampreys, uncaring if it was cloth or raw meat underneath. My cold iron aura destroyed them in a puff of ashes before they could take a bite with their much larger mouths, but that didn’t stop them from tearing up two little gobbets of my flesh each and then plopping them wetly back onto my ruined skin as they expired. More of them kept coming; they weren’t quick learners. All they saw when their brothers exploded was a clearer path to dinner. Some of them chomped onto the half-masticated pieces of me that didn’t have to be torn free, but plenty more kept going for the freshest meat available. My whole left side seethed with them, a boiling mess of blood and cloth and ashes mixed with shredded muscle tissue. I triggered my healing charm and let it draw all the magic it wanted; it wasn’t the time for conservation. Even if I somehow survived the onslaught, I’d bleed out quickly if I didn’t get the wounds under control. I didn’t try to shut down the pain, because therewas no point in diverting my limited magic to comfort. The verdict on whether I lived or died would be delivered soon enough.
    Had I brought Granuaile and Oberon, they would have been consumed inside a minute. Cold iron was the only thing giving me a wisp of a chance. Hundreds of tiny bites have a way of turning seconds into hours. Teeth scissored through the flesh all along my left side, and then the plosive thump of the faeries’ deaths punched each wound before a new set of teeth took another bite. I gritted my own teeth against the scream that wanted to erupt as my substance was gnawed away. No one would hear me over the screeching of the faeries, and even if they did, it probably wouldn’t be someone anxious to help me. Apart from that, I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, one of the pieholes would reach into mine with its hand-jaws and chomp down on my tongue.
    After an interminable time of sharp, churning pain, the noise and the bites and the deaths ended, leaving me shredded and covered in a thick paste of ashy blood. It drained slowly through the grate in the floor, which I had not been able to see until now—faeries had been everywhere. The floor was indeed a slick quarried stone, sloped gently to encourage the draining of blood—the source of that coppery smell. My thoughts were sluggish and I didn’t want to move lest I exacerbate my condition, but I had to do something. My bear charm was empty, and if I didn’t get out of there soon, I never would. My eyelids drooped and I wanted to sleep but knew I’d never wake up if I did. How had Midhir fed those damn things? He had obviously fed them regularly or the shit wouldn’t be piled so high, and he hadn’t schlepped in victims via the Old Way—it had been unused for centuries before I stepped through. Still, he’d maintained a huge swarm of pieholes here to guard it.That meant it was a weakness in his defenses he’d gone to great lengths to protect.
    I half-dragged, half-flopped my left arm off my face and whimpered when I saw the chewed tissue. Though the blood wasn’t pumping—my healing charm had shut down most of it and I was functioning on collateral circulation—I thought I could see a faint gleam of bone near my wrist and the top of my hand. I felt a new appreciation for the word
raw
.
    There was no way I’d be able to walk the Old Way out of here. My left leg wouldn’t be in any better condition than my arm, and I was drifting dangerously close to passing out. Even if I could get to my feet, I couldn’t cast magical sight to see the proper path anyway. And that was probably my doom right there; the exit was most likely as plain as day in the magical spectrum if I only knew where to look—the Morrigan had set up something like that at one of her lairs—but all I could see now were very broad hints that I was well and truly fucked.
    I turned my head up to the ceiling and could feel that it had been liberally gnawed on. The haircut Oberon had been suggesting had been delivered by faeries anxious to sample my scalp.
    The ceiling offered no signs of a trapdoor or any other egress. No ladders rose from the