Immortals After Dark 04 - Wicked Deeds on a Winters Night

burden, a hand shot out from the tomb as some being with matted gray skin, dead skin, reached blindly but unerringly to the witch. Its claws sank into her ankle—she didn’t react.
    Another hand darted out from the tomb, its fingers clenched around... one of the gold headdresses?
    “ Drop it, ” Bowe yelled, and the three released the stone, severing the hands. As Bowe fell back against the sealed entrance, struggling to breathe, Cade lunged to Mariketa to pry the claws from her ankle. Her skin there was bloodied, marked again and again. Bowe knew in an instant that she’d been dragged like that repeatedly.
    He squinted his eye at the other gruesome hand. Why offer a headdress?
    Once Bowe raised his gaze, he faced the killing looks of five powerful immortals, promising retribution.
    “Forget him for now!” The female archer hurried to cradle Mariketa’s head. “She’s in shock.” The others gathered around her, except for one of the archers, who twitched his pointed ears, then raced from the clearing.
    When the witch began to shudder, Bowe dropped to his knees beside her.
    “Water!” the female elf screamed at him. “We’re losing her!”
    He hastily unwound the canteen over his shoulder and handed it over. “What’s happened to her?”
    They all ignored him.
    “ Damn it, tell me what’s happened! ”
    The witch went still beside him, seemingly at his raised voice. Her eyes opened dazedly as she moaned; white light flashed from them into the sky and boiled up from her limp palms. Her lips parted around her ragged breaths.
    Without warning, she was on her feet, her eyes glittering with fury, and riveted to Bowe. As though in a tempest, her red hair swirled all around her bloodied face. Leaves and sand circled her body. “ You. ”
    “I—”
    With one flick of her hand in his direction, she tossed Bowe back against the tomb, crushing the contents of his pack. She pinned him there by his neck as he futilely writhed and fought for breath. In the midst of his struggles, he realized the toes of her boots were turned down—because she was no longer touching the ground.
    Her body was too frail... too small to conduct this power— unimaginable power. Never in his long life... never had he seen anything like this.
    The witch smiled with ghostly lips. “You came back,” she purred as the pressure increased around his neck. She was horrible. She was awing.
    And he knew he was about to die.

11

    M ariketa, no!” Rydstrom bellowed. “Let me deal with him!”
    Mari could barely hear him. Magick tolled in her ears and danced through her veins, pure and perfect for the first time in her life.
    It feels delicious.
    She tightened her hold around MacRieve’s throat once more, vaguely noticing his missing hand, the bandages on his face.
    “Give him to me!” Tierney had drawn his blade. Cade and Tera closed in on MacRieve, each wanting the pleasure of killing the Lykae for what he’d done.
    Mari wouldn’t give up her catch. Not until his head had left his body—
    A sharp pop like a gunshot sounded in the near distance. She heard it even over the din inside her head.
    “Mariketa,” Tera began in a wary tone, “drop him and run. Now.”
    Wary? After what they’d just lived through? More pops—definitely gunfire.
    She’d sensed Hild had raced from the clearing, and now he returned. “Two guerilla armies engaging in the brush a mile to the west,” he reported between breaths. “Each with at least two hundred humans. They’ve got rockets, mortar. We actually might have to consider them in our decisions.”

    Bowe saw it all unfolding but could do nothing. Frustration welled in him, matching the torture of her strangling grip. The force was pinning his back against his bag, pulverizing the contents.
    Then the witch’s eyes changed, becoming a shade of silver—one color, unbroken—shining brilliantly. As he stared in incomprehension, he could see... could see they were... mirrors . Nïx’s strange rhyme flashed in his mind, even as Mariketa was killing him.
    With her other hand, the witch emitted a pulse of energy at Bowe—a beam that made him feel as if he’d had a transfusion of acid. Turn your blood to acid, she’d told him.
    Rydstrom grabbed her wrists and moved to draw her magick from Bowe’s direction, then frowned that he hadn’t budged her thin arms. With both hands, he heaved back and finally got her to aim away from Bowe—toward the tomb.
    Freed of her hold and the scalding pain,