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Daphne launched herself at the bug, vaulting over its head with its antennae to land on its back. She sliced left and right, taking off the wavering filaments, causing the bug to drunkenly lurch.
Smart. She’s confusing its senses.
When the giant roach reared to toss her off, she leaped again, this time landing in front of the bug where she darted in and did a pair of more rapid cuts, shearing some legs.
The bug thrashed in response, its intact pincer waving about frantically while its maxillae wiggled, looking to grab.
They were sliced off next, Daphne’s movements precise and uncanny as parts of her elongated and even twisted, defying bone structure.
She’s magnificent, Garou mooned sappily.
Baptiste would have said deadly. He’d never heard of a dryad fighting. Never knew they could do anything other than turn into a tree. Watching her dance, her limbs swaying lightly as if rocked by a breeze, her hair fluttering, rustling like leaves, her torso bending but not breaking, a tree moving in a storm, she truly rivetted.
And proved violently efficient.
We should mate with her. Can you imagine the children we’d breed?
For a second, he almost agreed. Then came to his senses as her blade, extended on a vine-like limb, punctured one of the giant bug’s eyes.
The thing squealed and hissed and farted something noxious.
“You going to watch or help?” she asked as she spun past him.
“I thought you didn’t need help.”
“I don’t. I just don’t need you whining later that I emasculated you.”
A statement that completely shredded his man card, especially since, despite her request for help, she didn’t need him. She leaped into the air, and as she came down, slammed both daggers into the bug’s head and split it open.
The bug died, spurting some white shit—on him.
When it collapsed, exhaling a stink that watered the eyes, she calmly wiped her blades on her bedspread and sheathed them before saying, “We should go. The smell will get more nauseating as it decomposes.”
He glanced at his gore-spattered clothes and sighed. “Give me a second to wash and change.”
He tossed the comforter over the gooey floor and made himself a path to the washroom where he wiped off as much of the goo as he could. He emerged to find the door to the room open and Daphne missing.
Oh no. She’s gone! Garou howled.
“Calm the fuck down. She’s just outside.”
The night air proved a refreshing delight, and he took several deep breaths before casting a glance at a nonchalant Daphne who leaned against the wall just outside their motel room door.
Before he could ask what the fuck the bug attack was about, a car screeched into the parking lot of the motel and shone a bright light in their faces.
The cavalry—a.k.a. the Cryptid Authority—had arrived.
Chapter 8
Daphne suddenly found herself squinting against a bright light and pulled a dagger. As she lifted it, Baptiste murmured, “Put that thing away before you get us both in trouble.”
“Hands up. Don’t make any sudden moves,” someone bellowed, their voice amplified by magic.
An obedient dog, Baptiste laced his hands behind his head whereas Daphne cocked hers, and as the spotlight dimmed, she eyed the two people making the demands. A corpulent male in a wrinkled jacket and matching pants, and a female with vividly pink hair, holding up a glowing hand. A witch, but not of the earth variety.
“I said hands up where I can see them,” the pink lady shouted.
“It’s the Cryptid Authority,” explained Baptiste. “Someone must have called them about the disturbance.”
