Darkness Devours (Dark Angels 3)

I frowned, and forced every ounce of energy into trying to move something—anything. After a moment, my right hand twitched. Exhilaration surged. A twitch might not save me, but it was a definite sign that whatever it was that had frozen me was wearing off.

And maybe, just maybe, Amaya was helping. Until her heat had surged, my muscles had been totally unresponsive. As the thought crossed my mind, Amaya’s heat increased, storming through my body like wildfire. Sweat began to drip from every pore. It smelled like fear and poison.

“I do not like this,” the Rakshasa said, and raised her gaze to the shadows.

Again that murmur rose, the sound uneasy but vehement. The other Rakshasa wanted a kill, needed to taste flesh.

Fear threatened to choke me again. I took several deep breaths in an effort to remain calm, and kept my gaze on the Rakshasa. She was the immediate danger, not the ones who whispered from the shadows.

Her gaze came to mine again. She smiled, and in that instant I saw death.

My death.

Amaya’s heat became even fiercer, soaking through every pore and muscle, until it seemed that she was becoming a part of me.

And I suddenly realized that was exactly what she was doing. Her energy wasn’t just consuming me, it was shifting through me. She was moving through my flesh from her position at my back and, in the process, freeing me from the poison that held me immobile.

I twitched my fingers, my toes. Felt elation curl through me, and swiped down on it. Hard. Moving a few digits didn’t mean I was out of the woods. I needed full movement to have any hope—and even then, the odds were still stacked against survival.

The Rakshasa knelt beside me again. She gripped my face, her sharp nails digging into my skin but not actually cutting. “Your reaper cannot find you here,” she said softly. “You are ours to enjoy.”

I swallowed heavily. Urged Amaya to hurry the hell up.

“Our dark god demands a sacrifice during the feeding phase,” she continued, “and while the vampire would have sufficed, I believe you will bring us far greater favor.”

Meaning they weren’t going to eat me? I couldn’t exactly be unhappy about that, even though I wasn’t terribly keen on being sacrificed to their god instead.

She released me and rose. “Prepare her.”

The other Rakshasa peeled away from the shadows. I’d been expecting them to be as beautiful as the first one, but that wasn’t the case. Several verged on hideous, with yellowed skin, protruding teeth, long breasts and big bellies, while another had an odd number of limbs and the head of a horse. There was a dwarf with a bald head and a bulbous nose, while the last of them was tall and thin, and had the look of an elf. Except her skin was the color of moss and her hair a tangle of hissing serpents.

According to Azriel, the Rakshasa were shape-shifters, so I had to wonder why they’d chosen these forms over something more pleasant. But then, I guess beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and the Rakshasa were spirit rather than flesh. They weren’t likely to be governed by the same ideals of beauty as I was.

They shuffled toward me, eyes alight with an odd sense of expectation. I clenched my fists but could do little else except watch them. Amaya still burned through my body, her energy sitting somewhere in my middle, making my innards quiver and twitch—more from the thought of it than any actual discomfort. The ceremony that had made her a part of me had also ensured that she could never harm me physically. I wasn’t so sure about the whole mentally bit—at the very least, her constant hissing could possibly drive me around the bend.

Four Rakshasa moved to compass points around my body and began to chant. The sound resonated across the heavy atmosphere, dark and oddly powerful. From deep within the stones came a response—a heartbeat, slow and ponderous. It was as if the stones around me were coming to life.

The serpent-haired Rakshasa appeared, her chant joining the chorus of her kin as she swooped and tore my clothes from my body. I shivered as the cold, dense air hit my skin, and Amaya surged. She was so close to breaking through that I was surprised that the glow of her wasn’t making my skin translucent.

Snakes hissed and slithered as the Rakshasa moved around to my feet. She bent and took off my shoes, then tossed them toward the pile of my clothes. Her serpents kissed my toes, their tongues like little needles, pricking rather than tickling. Blood trickled from each of the wounds, the warmth contrasting sharply with the chill of my skin.

I dug my nails into my palms, and the pain cut through the haze of panic threatening to consume me, allowing some semblance of clarity. But it was all I could do to remain still and resist the temptation to get up and run.

I couldn’t move yet—figuratively or physically. My body still felt heavy, and Amaya had yet to finish her journey through my flesh.

The serpent-headed Rakshasa rose and disappeared back into the shadows. The other four continued their chant, and the beat of life in the stones around and underneath me got stronger. Whatever it was they were calling into life, it would soon be awake and aware. I had a feeling I didn’t want to be here when that happened.

I licked my lips, my gaze darting from side to side, trying to find the position of the other two Rakshasa. I couldn’t find the exotic one, but the serpent woman appeared again, an ancient-looking urn held with both hands above her head.

She stopped at my feet and spoke. The words were alien, but they ramped the power gathering in the air, making my hair stand on end and my skin quiver in revulsion.

The heat that was Amaya died within me, and I felt a moment of sheer terror. Then I realized the coolness of steel was pressed against my stomach, and the relief that swept me was so fierce that tears stung my eyes.

The serpent woman tilted the urn, her voice more strident, her words more commanding. Water poured down onto my feet and legs, thick and odorous. She continued to pour the liquid as she moved up my body, until I was completely covered in the goopy substance.

She reached my head, bent, and forced my mouth open, her sharp talons cutting into my skin as the tongues of her snakes darted across my face, tiny whips that cut and tasted. As she tilted the urn, Amaya screamed, No!

I didn’t think, I just reacted. I grabbed Amaya’s hilt, bought her sharply upward, and sliced through the hand that held me so brutally. The snake-headed Rakshasa screamed, the sound shattering the growing spell of power. The heartbeat in the stone hesitated, and the other Rakshasa roared. It was a sound filled with fury and death.