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A loud snarl. “Fuck this.” He punched her. Right in the fucking head. Then he grabbed one wing and yanked hard, snapping the fine bones there.
Motherfucker.
Unmoved by her screech of pain, he pulled at her wing even harder, causing more bones to give way with a sickening crack.
As his hands turned scorching hot in a telling move that said he meant to use his ability to melt her bones, she did as her demon craved.
She stabbed his eye with her beak and plucked it right out.
A rough sound of agony tore its way out of him, and his hands tightened painfully on her body.
She spat out his eye and shifted mega fast—healing her wing in the process. Larkin then slapped her hand on Holt’s head and shot out a blast of hell-ice chips. “Now you’re dead, fucker,” she spat as the chips sank through his skin, burst their way through his skull, and buried themselves in his brain.
His eyes shot open wide, and his breath stuttered. Feeling his grip on her weaken, she watched with supreme satisfaction as awareness began to fade from his eyes.
Whereas hellfire burned, hell-ice froze. The cold would spread throughout an organ wicked fast, freezing it—a heart, a lung, a brain, anything. And as that unnatural cold right then took over Holt’s brain, finally bringing every bit of activity up there to a sharp stop, his gaze turned unnaturally unfocused. He then slumped back, lifeless.
The van screeched to a halt so suddenly she stumbled.
Great. He’d probably given his henchmen a telepathic shoutout before death took him.
She moved off Holt’s lap and called to her wings. Large and midnight-black, they snapped out, heavy and so much stronger than those she sported as a harpy eagle.
Feeling no sadness at all about Holt’s death, she quickly lit his corpse up with hellfire, sorry that she didn’t have the time to watch him burn. He’d suffered too quick a death in her opinion. It majorly disappointed her demon that they hadn’t been able to torture him some, but it did love that it got to watch the life leave his eyes.
The van’s rear doors were wrenched open.
Larkin didn’t give the male demons a moment to take in the scene. She acted instantly—slamming up a hand and projecting a hail of hell-ice out of her palm.
They stumbled back in surprise. One ducked, but the other didn’t manage to avoid the onslaught. As the chips sank into his head, he swayed, his eyes hazing.
Before the dying sentinel had even dropped to the ground, the other male straightened and conjured a hellfire orb.
Larkin flapped her wings hard, emitting a bitterly cold, gale-force wind. It put out the orb, knocked him off his feet, and sent him sliding along the ground.
She leaped out of the van and landed in a crouch above him. Before he had the opportunity to attack, she slammed her hand down on his chest and fired a hail of hell-ice. The chips pierced through his skin and ribcage to plant themselves in his organs and veins. In mere seconds, he was dead.
Standing upright, she exhaled a long breath and reached out to touch Teague’s mind. Relief whipped through her as she felt that he was alive. Thank God.
Eager to get to his camp fast, she quickly dumped both corpses in the van and then lit it up with hellfire. It burned fast, consuming the entire vehicle and the bodies inside.
Done.
Satisfied there was no one around, she bulleted up into the sky and began heading fast for Teague’s territory. She flew hard, her pulse beating fast in her throat, her panic so all-consuming she was unaware of the passing of time.
When she finally crashed through the preternatural shield surrounding Teague’s land, the sounds of battle whacked into her. Jesus, it was loud. If it wasn’t for the shield, the noise would be heard from miles away, and there would be police gathered in no time at all.
Hovering high above Teague’s camp, Larkin drank in the sight below, blinking in surprise at the dead chupacabras littering the earth. The fuck?
The clearing was the picture of pure chaos. Hellhorses battled. Fallen angels attacked chupacabras. Hounds tore into each other—and yeah, if Teague hadn’t told her the truth about his pets, she would have been shocked at the sight of ten, redeyed dogs.
Not far away from where she hovered, two flocks of birds were going at each other hard, sending tufts of feathers everywhere.
She frantically scanned the mayhem for—there. She recognized Teague’s hellhorse straight away. You couldn’t miss the scar on its neck. It was locked in battle with who was most likely Ronin’s beast.
The fight was ugly. There was raw power in every lunge, every bite, every slam of hooves. Muscles bunched and flexed and shimmered with both sweat and blood.
Though Teague’s demon was dominating the duel, it wasn’t satisfaction she felt. No, a surge of anger swooped through both her and her demon. Why? Because it was a walking mass of injuries.
