On the Prowl

sultry flow of her voice flavored with two things you usually did not hear when a man advanced upon you with a naked sword shining sharp and bright in his hand…amusement and eagerness. And it was the latter that scared me most.
    A shimmer of power, a darker, more subtler force, and the sharp fingernails of her left hand extended, grew four inches long. Thick, wide, and curving. Became deadly claws like five sharp knives suddenly growing from her hand. “It’s not always length that matters most,” she said, luscious lips curving, eyes laughing, like a sex kitten about to seriously play.
    She sprang. Only you couldn’t see her move. She was just suddenly no longer there but behind Dontaine, like a wind blown past him. Something he felt but could not see, she moved so fast. Beside me, Tomas sucked in a shocked breath. Nothing stirred for a moment, then a blonde lock of Dontaine’s hair, sliced free, floated lightly down to the ground like a dying leaf parted from a tree.
    Lucinda laughed at what she saw on Dontaine’s face as he swung about to face her. “Still want to play?” she asked, her dark brown eyes sparkling like hot chocolate, eager to melt, eager to burn.
    Dontaine growled. Literally growled, a deep warning animal rumble that sounded odd coming from a human throat. Then he moved, with Monère quickness, a fast blur. But still motion you see. He struck at her but she was no longer there, like a ghost suddenly vanishing to reappear yards away, closer to me, closer to Tomas.
    Tomas gave no warning, like the sword he had drawn. He simply rushed to attack her, to fend off the threat he perceived to me. Both my men rushed her from opposite sides, coming together in a blur of motion. And Lucinda stood there, a calm little demon, until they were almost upon her, a fierce light in her eyes, a little smile curling her lips. And then she moved. They all moved. With sound and motion and grunts and thuds as they fought fiercely. As Dontaine went tumbling head over heels, tossed away like a stick playfully thrown for a dog to fetch. As Tomas slammed hard to the ground, Lucinda kneeling on his chest, looking too tiny to have done what she had done—overpower two strong warriors.
    Looking like a kitten who had the claws of a monstrous tiger, the sharp points of her left hand were buried like nails through Tomas’s wrist, pinning his hand and the sword he still held to the ground in a brutal, effective manner. But his other hand was free and had drawn a hidden dagger.
    “Not fair odds.” Lucinda tsk-tsked. “Too little men to challenge me. But then I never claimed to be fair.” She drew back to strike, to move.
    “Don’t!” My voice rang out in a hoarse croak. And Tomas’s dagger froze in its striking drive, not because of my command, but because Lucinda’s tiny hand gripped his. “Don’t…hurt,” I gasped.
    “Don’t hurt whom? Him or me?” Lucinda asked, both menace and amusement in her voice.
    “Both,” I whispered. “Both.” I tried to stand, to move toward them, but that other thing within me fluttered, stirred in protest. No, it screamed. Not closer. Away. Away from the danger, not to it! I fought to stand and lost the battle, unable to. But you didn’t need to stand to move. I started crawling toward them, on hands and knees, my whole body trembling, shaking, resisting, as I dragged myself closer.
    “Halcyon’s sister. No, Dontaine,” I rasped as I sensed movement behind her. I blinked the sheen of pain-driven tears from my eyes—odd that fear dried your mouth, but pain moistened your eyes—and as my vision cleared, I saw Dontaine frozen like a literal statue behind the dainty golden demon, his sword angled for a downward thrust into her back, held unnaturally poised on the brink of that violence. And I knew it was not from obedience to my command—I would have been too late—but from the invisible power of her will. Her psychic powers were what held him immobile, a frozen prisoner in the tendrils of her invisible force. She didn’t need physical touch to stop him. It was not just their physical strength that made demons greatly feared.
    She stood, pulled her claws casually from the ground, from Tomas’s pierced wrist as his face writhed with silent agony. With a thought, she held him immobile, too. A shimmer of that dark shadowy power, and that hideous claw shrank back down to just pointy nails. She licked each bloody tip, slowly sucking each digit clean, savoring it; her