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Ronin’s demon peeled back its lips to expose its teeth. It charged, its fellow invaders still flanking it.
Teague’s steed bucked with a roar-scream. And then it bulleted across the clearing toward its approaching enemy, jumping over corpses. Its clan followed the steed, heading for the other hellhorses.
The two sides reared up and clashed in a ferocious storm of teeth, hooves, and hellfire. A storm that made the evening echo with roars and growls and the smack of hoof against flesh.
Scorn. Loathing. Fury. Bloodthirst. Vengeance. All of it pounded through Teague’s hellhorse and fueled its every lunge and blow and bite.
Ronin’s stallion was not as weak as the male with whom it shared its soul. It was strong. Deadly. Trained. Fearless.
It attacked hard. Fought with sheer cunning and viciousness. Targeted existing injuries—deepening bite marks, striking bruises and burns.
Teague’s steed was equally brutal. It didn’t merely sink its teeth down, it tore out chunks of flesh. Every gush of its enemy’s blood tasted of victory and vengeance.
His beast caught its foe’s ear between its teeth and gave a sharp twist of its head. The enemy reared back with a pained sound as half its ear was ripped away. Teague’s steed spat it on the ground, a feral satisfaction whirling in its gut.
Its sides heaving, Ronin’s demon growled low in its throat, scraping the earth with a hoof. Extending its head, it exhaled a blast of hellfire.
Teague’s stallion danced backwards to avoid it, but the hot flames licked at its muzzle, searing the skin. The steed vigorously shook its head as if it would shake off the pain. A pain that ramped up its need to vanquish its enemy.
Its nostrils flaring, the hellhorse rushed its foe again. It rammed its scalding-hot hooves into vulnerable spots; hammering at the kneecaps, determined to crumple the forelegs.
Ronin’s stallion fought back hard, its own coat now covered in almost as many patches of blood and charred skin. Blisters pebbled parts of its flesh, particularly that of its face.
Around them, the other hellhorses continued to rear up and attack again and again. The battle was as primal and savage as it was animalistic. Neither side showed signs of backing down.
Fatigue soon began to creep up on Teague’s beast again. Its lungs hurt from the noxious fumes, making it hard for the panting steed to catch its breath. Its blood seemed to sting from its foe’s venom in its system. The pain added to those of its injuries, distracting it; threatening to weaken it.
The other hellhorse sensed it was tiring. Tried to take advantage, upping its speed. But Teague’s demon was still too fast for its opponent to find the opening it needed.
Recalling each of Ronin’s slights and crimes, the steed embraced its fury. Used it. Channeled it.
As Teague’s beast gave a hard kick to its opponent’s badly burned shoulder, Ronin’s beast swiftly backed up with a sound that rang with both rage and pain. Its muscles bunching, it breathed out another blast of hellfire.
Teague’s demon had anticipated the move and danced aside, evading most of the blast. A little of the flames blazed across its badly blistered flank, leaving a trail of white-hot pain in its wake. Furious, the steed snapped its teeth and charged yet again.
The two demons once more quickly became caught up in a deadly duel, their coats damp with blood and sweat. On and on they fought, ferocious in their determination to win.
Teeth sank down, making blood spurt. Hellfire raced over skin, causing blisters. Red-hot hooves singed coats with every bruising hit.
The reflexes of Ronin’s demon steadily became slower. Its strikes lost some of their force. Its balance began to suffer due to its scuffed and battered kneecaps.
A loud, wheezy yelp sounded. Baxter.
Teague’s beast faltered. Rage rushed through its system, and a roar of blood thundered in the steed’s ears. Snarling, it struck harder. Faster. Angrier.
Ronin’s demon began to fall back under the pressure, its attempts to attack becoming attempts to merely defend.
Taking advantage, Teague’s demon dove in again and again, its goal—need—to maul and dominate. Soon, its foe began to tire even more. Its responses and attacks grew slower and weaker, but Teague’s hellhorse didn’t let up.
It had a point to make. A message to deliver. A punishment to administer. And that was what it would do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Before Holt could think to act, Larkin spread her wings in a sharp movement that ripped open the net. She lunged at Holt, her wings still spread.
He caught her with a muffled oath, trying to rear back out of reach. But there was no evading the long beak that stabbed and bit at his face, or the curved razor-sharp talons that raked through cloth and skin. “Jesus, Larkin, fucking stop!”
She didn’t. She went at him like a harpy possessed.
The smell of blood blanketed her senses, fairly intoxicating her demon. It had wanted his blood and pain for so long . . .
