Grim Lovelies (Grim Lovelies 1)

And then Cricket sprinted down the rear stairs behind him and launched off the bottom stair to leap onto his back. He let out another cry as she wrapped an arm around his neck, choking him. For a few seconds it was a scramble between them, a tangle of limbs and feet and even a flash of teeth, but then something silver gleamed in Viggo’s hand and Cricket stopped fighting.

A pistol.

No one moved. What were knives against bullets? Anouk had forgotten that Viggo was a Pretty. He could use technology.

“It fires,” he said, as though reading their minds. “It’s old technology. Purely mechanical; no biometric locks or electric spotting scopes that the magic in this house would interfere with. Almost analog enough that even a witch could fire it. But not quite.” He aimed it at Ano

uk. “Come here, Cricket. Slowly.”

Cricket looked ready to spit in his face, but he pulled her close enough to press the pistol to her temple.

Anouk felt rage burning through her. Her mind churned. She could scream for Beau. She could throw a pot from the stove. She could—?

Something cold and sharp pressed against the side of her neck. She sucked in a breath.

Oh no.

Hunter Black’s breath was hot on her throat. “Drop the knife, Anouk.”

She’d forgotten about the shadow that never left Viggo’s side. He grabbed her arms, pinned them behind her back. He was so much stronger than her. And Viggo’s damn pistol. What weapon did she have? Nothing beside her mind, her hands. Her whispers!

“Dorma,” she whispered in a rush, “dor—”

Hunter Black’s hand clamped over her mouth, smothering the whisper. “And don’t scream.”

Anouk sputtered against his palm, but he only pressed harder. She met Cricket’s eyes. A look of understanding passed over Cricket’s face as she realized what Anouk had been trying to do. She almost smiled. Cricket didn’t have her mouth covered, and if magic was what she wanted to do, this was her chance.

She pointed toward Hunter Black.

“Dorma!” she yelled. “Dorma silencia et mada . . . et mada . . . oh, merde, I don’t remember!”

Anouk gave a muffled cry. It wouldn’t have worked anyway; neither of them had consumed a flower or anything containing life. She needed her mouth uncovered, and she needed something pulsing with life, something like . . . like . . .

Yes.

She bit down on Hunter Black’s middle finger. His flesh caught beneath her teeth like a ripe apple; her sharp teeth pierced his skin and warm blood flooded into her mouth. He yelled and let her go, and she felt sick, her mouth filled with his salty, too-warm blood. She tried not to gag.

Viggo looked aghast. “You. Bitch.”

Hunter Black clutched his bleeding hand to his chest, reaching for a kitchen towel, and Anouk knew what would happen next. He’d wind back his other hand to slap her and he wouldn’t stop hitting until she was broken on the floor.

She swallowed down the mouthful of blood.

“Dorma, dorma, sonora precimo,” she choked out.

Hunter Black dropped to the floor—?like that. It happened so fast, so suddenly, that at first Anouk didn’t believe it. She stared at his prostrate body, daring to poke him with her toe.

“Get up!” Viggo looked horribly confused. “Hunter Black, get up!”

“That’s what you deserve, crétin!” Cricket cheered. She took the opportunity to elbow Viggo in the stomach, and then pressed one of her knives to his jugular and announced gleefully, “Didn’t think we could do magic, did you? Thought we were only good for making your bed? Or keeping it warm?” She dug the blade deeper and a prick of red appeared, which seemed to delight her. “Now drop the pistol.”

He moaned weakly and obeyed.

“We should put him to sleep too,” Anouk said, looking around for something else living to swallow. “We could lock them in the wine cellar. Somewhere they can’t escape.”

She reached for a sprig of rosemary, but Cricket shook her head.

“Let me.” She jabbed the blade deeper against Viggo’s neck until a line of blood ran down his skin. She licked it, then made a face, but swallowed. “Now what do I say again?”