“What are you doing?” he managed. “You have to run. You have to get away before they…wake up…”
She’d been right. Whatever he’d done to freeze them was only temporary. Gripping the sword in both hands, she turned to stare at the grotesque monsters. Vibrations ran down her legs, into her feet. Into the floor, making the bed rattle against the wall. But that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be coming from her. She had no power other than sensing energy shifts, which this most definitely was not.
She ignored the ludicrous, refocused on what she had to do next. Her stomach rolled, but she swallowed hard and said, “What do I have to do to kill them?”
“Maelea—”
“There’s only one way to kill them, right? Otherwise they heal and bounce back. Isn’t that right?”
“Maelea—”
“Tell me what to do, Gryphon! Before they wake up! I’m not leaving you here.”
“You…” He hesitated, and she looked to him, saw the way he pressed a hand over his wounds, tried to sit up but couldn’t. Blood oozed between his fingers, dripped down to this stomach. “You…you have to…decapitate them.”
Oh…gods. Her attention shifted back to the monsters. And this time she had to swallow back bile and what little dinner she’d eaten earlier to keep from losing it. They were each at least seven feet tall. She was only about five six. She’d never be able to do this.
“Push…push them over,” Gryphon managed, as if reading her thoughts. “It’ll give you a better angle. We’ve only got minutes before they start to…wake up.”
Maelea forced back the sickness, moved to the first daemon. Its body was hard as stone, and reeked of a foul stench. When she pushed against it, the skin burned her hand. She jerked her arm back, then realized she needed leverage. Stepping away for momentum, she rammed the beast with her shoulder, putting her weight behind the blow.
It toppled to the floor like a tree falling in the woods. Maelea stumbled when its weight shifted, almost dropped on top of it before she caught her footing. Breathing heavily, she looked down at its body lying still on the carpet, eyes wide, fangs dripping something vile. Then she swallowed hard and lifted the blade.
Vibrations arced through her body, ricocheted through her feet. Shook the room. She didn’t look when she brought the sword down. Couldn’t. She turned her head and closed her eyes. But she felt the blood and slime splash across her clothing when the blade connected, and she heard the horrific squelch of tissue and the crack of bones breaking as the steel sliced through its neck.
“Maelea…”
She couldn’t look at Gryphon. Couldn’t look at what she’d just done either. Knew if she did, she’d lose it. And there were still four other daemons left to deal with before she lost it for good. Swallowing back the bile in her throat, she opened her eyes. And was shocked to see the remaining daemons had all toppled to the ground, all on their own.
Weird. But she wasn’t about to question luck. Not right now. She stepped over the decapitated daemon, moved to the next. Lifted the sword in her shaking hands and repeated the movement.
She was dripping sweat by the time she finished. Her clothes were covered in blood and gore. The room looked like something straight out of a slasher movie. She dropped the sword at her feet, moved on shaky legs toward Gryphon, grasped the comforter from the bed, and tossed it over him.
“Maelea…”
She tucked the blanket around him, told herself not to focus on what she’d just done, but on what she needed to do next. “Where are the keys to the truck?”
“Maelea—”
“Gryphon, the keys.”
He dropped his head back against the wall. Pain and regret rushed over his features, but she couldn’t deal with either of those just yet. She had to get them out of here before more daemons showed up. “In the backpack,” he rasped. “Near the wall.”
She scrambled for the pack, found the keys in the front pocket. She also found the money he’d taken from that army surplus store, a handful of knives, and a few clothing items, which would undoubtedly come in handy when they got the heck out of here. Zipping the pack, she threw the strap over her shoulder and pushed to her feet, then reached down and grasped him by the arm, trying to help him up.
“I can’t carry you,” she said, grunting with the effort when she realized how heavy he was. “I can help, but I’ll need you to…help me back.”
He groaned and shifted, placed an arm on the bed, tried to push himself up. Fell back on his ass. It took three tries before she was able to slip an arm under his and use the strength in her legs to push them both up. His chest rose and fell as if he was having trouble breathing, and his eyes weren’t focusing. As the blanket fell from his body, she caught sight of the slash marks across his chest, bleeding profusely.
He needed stitches. He needed a doctor. Shit, what was she going to do with him?