Twenty-four – 04

Blue light limned the edges of her daggers as she drew them from their sheathes, painted with the glow of a winter moon, the light of a full moon on the longest night of the year. Leinth’s lips peeled back in an unlovely, grim smile.

Let the bitch come. I have a score to settle with her myself.

The witch-goddess’s insult still echoed in her ears from all those months ago, when Leinth stood against her on the road, buying time for Cameron, Jacqueline, and Phelan to make good their escape. The fight had taken more from her than she’d wanted to give.

Not this time. This time, I stand on warded ground. This time, I will not be alone.

This time, she will be the one to flee—not me.

Leinth took two steps forward and buried one of her daggers in the belly of the screeching dirae, ending the creature’s suffering. She jerked the dagger free of the hag and watched it fall, twitching and smoking, back toward the edge of the ravine and the slope it had climbed to reach the spot where she stood.

This time, she and her minions will pay the price for the tune they’ve called.

“Leinth!”

She calmly cleaned her blade in the grass and snow near her feet, eyes scanning the ravine once more. What little of the dark blood didn’t come off on the ground, the enchantment she’d laid with her magic burned away. She didn’t turn toward the sound of Seamus’s voice, rough and raw, though her heart quickened and her throat tightened at the sound.

Her lover was afraid.

Perhaps I should be as well.

The death goddess smiled grimly.

Unfortunately, fear wasn’t a useful emotion—not for her, not yet.

She took a deep breath.

“I know you’re out there, Hecate,” she called, pitching her voice to carry, to echo off the trees. “Show yourself, hag. Face us if you have the stomach for it.”

There was nothing but silence from the ravine for a few long, aching moments. Behind her, Leinth could hear her own allies organizing to defend their home, heard their footsteps pounding against the thawing, muddy earth, heard the sound of weapons clanging or scraping free of their sheathes.

And then the laughter began to echo from nowhere and everywhere beyond the warding lines.

“So be it, death witch,” the Hecate crowed. “So be it!”

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