Panting but trying not to make a sound, I pressed my back against the
wall. Darkness floated around me like a deep mist—though somehow, I could
see through it.
The thing was searching. Its flytrap-like head snapped toward me, and I
stifled a wail.
God save me now.
Its attention didn’t waver. Could it see me?
Of course it could. It was a nightmare. Certainly, it could see me
cowering in the shadows, magic or no. But it didn’t move to strike or look
way.
Hope sparked. Maybe it couldn’t see me through the magical veil of
darkness that I’d pulled around my body. But I was certain it knew I was
here. It could probably smell my fear.
Then don’t be afraid.
I steeled my soul. I was fucking Savannah Caine.
When I was a waitress, before I’d known any of this was real, I’d
pancaked the first werewolf that had attacked me. I’d fought off blood
demons, blood drainers, and more werewolves. I had a body count before I
had an ounce of control over my magic. My pulse slowed.
The thing turned its head. Then a bunch of gills opened up.
What the
fuck?
I assumed those were some stupid sensing organs for situations when it
couldn’t see the hapless victim it wanted to devour.
Suddenly, it screeched, and its head snapped away from me as a roaring
ball of fire slammed into it.
Casey.
The monstrosity shrieked again, and the air reverberated with power and
magic. It reared back to strike, but streams of flame poured toward it,
billowing around its form.