Rout of the Dem-Shyr (The Ascendant Series) (36 page)

“You must be Olivia,” Angelica announces when we approach her. “Tara’s told us so much about you.”

“She has, huh?” I send a chastising look toward Tara, to which she just mouths “what?” at me.

“All good things, I assure you,” Angelica chimes in with a reserved smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Angelica,” I say and extend my hand out for hers. She takes hold of mine with a graceful sweeping motion and the moment our skin touches, I get this surge of discomfort. It literally feels like she punched me straight in the abdomen.

“Likewise,” she replies, releasing my hand. An inquisitive look springs to her face, coupled with a furrowed brow.

“So, what do you think about my girl Tara here being a legacy?” I ask, hoping the question will take her focus off my reaction.

“Well, it definitely helps when rushing. Dedication and loyalty are highly valued in our sorority.”

The sound of cracking glass followed by a whooshing noise pulls my attention to the large windows behind Angelica. I hone in on the bolt headed straight for me and snatch it right out of the air. When my eyes pan back over to Angelica, I notice hers are held on the projectile I now hold in my hand, its tip mere inches from my face. Actually, everyone in my direct vicinity is gawking at me with open-mouthed stares. Yeah, this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve caught a bolt out of midair that was shot at me, but I can see why it would be shocking to most people.

The glinting of the bolt’s silver tip in the light from the ceiling fan overhead catches my attention. I immediately realize who fired it when I notice the symbol etched into its face—a capital W inside a capital H. This shot wasn’t meant for me.

“Witch Hunters,” I whisper as my shocked eyes meet Tara’s.

When I hear another bolt breach the living room window, I wrap my arms around Angelica’s waist and drag her to the floor. Two more bolts fly overhead right after, but I don’t see where they hit. Screams fill the area as everyone begins fleeing the scene. While I hold onto Angelica, intense pain makes me cry out.

The pain is worth it to save a life
, I keep telling myself.

“Shit,” Tara fumes, causing me to jerk my head up to look over my shoulder at her. She’s standing there analyzing two bolts lodged into her chest while shaking her head. “This is an Ann Taylor dress. Do you know how much an Ann Taylor dress costs?” She looks as if she wants to rip someone limb from limb.

“Will you quit showing off and get down? You may be a zombie, but you only get one body,” I reprimand.

“You know I hate the Z-word,” she complains while ripping out each bolt, one by one, before tossing them to the ground. “I prefer the terms ‘living impaired’ or ‘husk,’ thank you very much.”

“Sorry, but now’s not the time to be arguing about what you’d prefer to be called,” I mutter, letting go of Angelica when I can’t take the pain any longer. “Now, would you please get your living impaired ass down here and out of sight before your body ends up holier than the Pope?”

Without another word, Tara drops to her hands and knees and scrambles over to join us. There’s a cease in fire for a moment. The living room has emptied out, and we’re the last three in here as I look around. It actually sounds like we’re the last three in the entire house.

“What now?” Tara asks.

“I want you to take Angelica and get to the car. Warm it up for me, I’ll be there in a sec,” I say, tossing her the keys. She catches them and then sends me a worried look.

“But—”

“No buts, just go. You’ve died on my watch once already, and I don’t feel like having a repeat of that event, okay? I need to keep frosty, and this could prove to be a good workout for me anyway.”

Tara nods and then takes hold of Angelica’s arm before pulling her up into a crouched position. “Please don’t get too carried away with the ass kicking, all right?”

“I can’t make any promises. Now go!” I shout before somersaulting to take cover in front of the couch. Thankfully, I made the sensible decision to wear flats instead of heels to this shindig. Summersaulting in heels would’ve been a nightmare and a half.

I watch the pair scurry off as another small volley of bolts pelt the furniture in the living room. The recliner across from me is starting to resemble a pincushion with all the bolts stuck into it.

The sound of more windows shattering behind me sends me jumping to my feet and barreling forward as shards of glass shower down around me. I clear the dark wood coffee table with a single bound (in a skirt!) and tumble over the recliner to hide behind it, putting my back to the set of large windows again.

Peeking around the arm of the chair, I see three figures standing there amongst the wreckage that is now the living room. Dark smoke drips from their fingertips, and their intense, glowing violet eyes shimmer like jewels from underneath the hoods of their black cloaks.

Maulers … Why does it have to be Maulers
?

These guys are the workhorses for a Witch Hunter. They’re nimble and super-fast zombie types that do all the heavy lifting in combat so a Hunter can gain the upper hand in a fight. Born of dark magic—one of three spells the Elders “borrowed” from witches—Maulers are only as strong as the person who controls them. This Hunter must be a beast, because the max number of Maulers any single Hunter has been able to command at one time is four. To put it in perspective, I could only command two at a time on a good day, and one of them was practically useless and really only played the part of a glorified punching bag.

I can hear their snarls echo throughout the room as I try and steady my breathing. They don’t seem to be moving though. They must be waiting for something.

All right, I may be a bit rusty at this, but here goes nothing
.

I draw in one last calming breath as I mull over the fact that I could change my mind and run away like the rest of the partygoers. Shaking my head, I jump to my feet and spin around to face the three with my hand instinctively grabbing for one of the bolts protruding from the recliner. A gasp parts my lips when I’m met with the very last visual I was expecting. A fourth figure is now standing amongst the three Maulers, holding a Guild-certified automatic crossbow pointed in my direction.

“Malcolm?” The name escapes my mouth before I have a chance to swallow it.

A confused look crosses my older brother’s face. “Sorry, but do I know you?” he asks.

*    *    *

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Rout of the Dem-Shyr
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