She pounced. I stifled a curse as stained, razor-sharp teeth tore at my outstretched arm. I fell, and Hellseeker went flying.
Fantastic! A two-hundred-year-old granny from hell was trying to kill me, and I was unarmed.
Not good. Not good at all.
Mercy Blackmore pinned me to the floor, her fingers sprouting long nails that would have made Wolverine envious. I rolled aside, and not a second too soon, as those razor-sharp claws plunged into the moss-covered floor where my head had been a mere moment earlier. The witch-demon let out a guttural roar of frustration.
She was pissed now.
I guess that made two of us.
Blood roaring in my ears, I stumbled to my feet and combed the floor for my pistol. I had a feeling that if I remained without it, I wouldn’t walk away from the witch’s next attack. Luck favored me and I spotted Hellseeker just five feet away. I dove for the weapon and held back a cry of triumph as my fingers closed around the blessed ivory grip. Better not to tempt fate with a victory dance.
Adrenaline pumping, I spun around, gun ready and…
Found only the empty cabin waiting for me.
A beat later, a nearby window shattered as the witch fled through it. I resisted the impulse to unload Hellseeker into the encroaching darkness. Each bullet was precious. Wasting my ammo so I could feel like a badass was unacceptable.
Despite being hit, Mercy Blackmore was as dangerous as ever—if not more so. Nothing fights as viciously as a wounded beast.
I sucked in a deep gulp of air and made my way toward the shattered window. Peeking through the jagged maw of glass I scanned the creepy stand of trees, which stretched out behind the cabin.
A trail of black blood showed me the way Mercy must’ve gone. The witch was hurt, angry, and gathering her strength for the inevitable counterattack. My scar pulsed and throbbed dully, reminding me that this battle was far from over.
Through the window I went.
Once outside, I took a couple of hesitant steps, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. Where was the witch hiding?
There was something odd about the skeletal trees just ahead. For a surreal moment, they looked like distorted human forms.
I gasped.
Something was staring back at me from a hollow in the nearest tree. A human eye flicked back and forth, shiny with mad terror. My heart sank as I studied the cove of trees more closely. Further inspection confirmed my worst suspicions. I had found the missing campers.
Cursing the wretched monster responsible for this, I approached the first tree. No wonder the branches had reminded me of arms—at one point in time they’d actually been human limbs.
Jesus.
Blackmore’s infernal magic had stripped the unfortunate souls of their humanity, fusing flesh with wood. Being drained by a vampire or mauled by a were struck me as a preferable fate to this slow, torturous decay. Growing fury threatened to cloud my thinking.
This is why Blackmore had led me into her horror garden. The witch must’ve anticipated my reaction, knowing how the grisly sight would throw me off. Anger can be fuel during a battle, but getting emotional always leads to mistakes. The witch hoped to rattle me so I’d slip up. I wasn’t going to oblige. After all, this wasn’t my first rodeo with evil.
“Please, help me,” whispered a voice.
Did the witch really think I would fall for this trick again? But something was different this time. My scar didn’t react. Whoever was calling me, it wasn’t the Blackmore Witch.
I scanned the ground and saw a dirt-streaked face looking up at me. To my surprise, I recognized her. It was the same young woman the witch impersonated back in the cabin.
Hope bloomed.
Please, just let me save one.
She’d been buried in a shallow grave. No, not buried—planted. I knelt before the woman and started digging like a madman. Roots had enveloped her body but hadn’t fused with her skin yet, the transformation evidently beginning its first phase. From the looks of it, I had arrived just in the nick of time.
Pulling out the demon-slaying dagger I’d acquired in India six months earlier while hunting a murderous werepanther, I began sawing away at the roots. Sweat poured down my face and I choked at the salt of my own perspiration. Muscles stretched taut, I was able at last to pull the woman out of the ground.
Initially her wobbly legs failed to support her weight, but with time her body would recover. Whether her mind would follow was another story. Her lost gaze suggested that she was in deep shock; a little girl trapped in a nightmare.
I retraced my steps from the woods, half carrying the dazed girl. My desire to pursue the Blackmore Witch was not as pressing as getting this young woman to safety. As we neared the edge of the unholy grove, one of the trees spoke. It was the one I’d first noticed, and that single, panicked eye was now fixed on us.
“Blaire?” a strangled voice asked, just audibly.