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Its face, neck, and shoulders were covered in bites. Puncture wounds were here and there. Burns and blisters and scorch marks could be seen on the front of its body. And there were also lots of deep gashes, particularly on its muzzle, legs, and flank—likely courtesy of chupacabra-claws.
Hissing through her teeth, she clenched her fists. If it hadn’t been a hellhorse—a creature hard to hurt and even harder to destroy—it would likely have been in a terrible state, if not dead.
Ronin really needed to die. She had every confidence that he would. His beast was slowly backing up under the pressure of the brutal assault, clearly outmatched. The hellhorses flanking it were also struggling against their opponents. Good.
Sure that Teague’s demon didn’t desperately need intervention, she quickly took another glance around, wanting to be certain that Ronin didn’t have any extra minions waiting in the trees. She wouldn’t put it past the spineless little shit.
Nobody appeared to be hanging around. The only chupacabra left—there were half a dozen or so—were surrounded by the Black Saints. The fallen angels sported some injuries but were . . . well, they were doing a whole bunch of stuff. Mostly just playing with their prey. Literally playing with them.
The Black Saints would let them run but then teleport in front of them and either punch their muzzle, wrestle them, or shoot them with crackling weird-ass balls of ultraviolet fire.
They also did a lot of laughing. And occasionally sank their teeth into the creatures’ necks, whatever that was about. She didn’t think they were drinking blood, but it was hard to tell. Surely not.
Basically, they were in no rush to end their fun.
Well, all right.
A pained squawk made her glance to the right. Ravens were still fighting in the air, and two appeared to have fallen to their death. Fuck, she hoped they weren’t from Teague’s flock—there was no way for her to tell simply from looking at them.
Similarly, she couldn’t tell the bloodhounds apart from the ones who’d evidently come along with Ronin. All were covered in puncture wounds and deep gashes at this point. Two were limping, and one was missing an ear.
She didn’t try to help either the ravens or the hounds, worried she’d hurt the wrong ones. Instead, she switched her focus to the hellhorse battle. It was still nothing short of ugly. Teeth scraped and sank deep. Hooves kicked and slammed. Hellfire consumed and scorched.
Her demon fairly rubbed its hands, eager to watch Teague’s steed and its clan lay waste to the fuckers who’d dared come here to kill them. Wanting to speed things along, Larkin decided to jump in.
Attacking from above, she threw up her palms and let out a volley of hell-ice. The chips zoomed down through the air and sank into the backs and flanks of the enemy-hellhorses. The steeds flinched and whinnied in pain. Her demon drank in the sounds with a sadistic smirk of delight.
Since she was at such a distance away from her targets, Larkin wasn’t sure if the chips would embed themselves deep—they might merely settle an inch or so beneath the skin. But they’d still sting and ache like crazy.
A couple of the hellhorses that had been hit peered up and spotted Larkin. She waved, beaming while her demon flipped them the finger. The steeds had no way to retaliate and needed to keep their attention on their battle, so they went right back to it . . . but not before one of them first let out a loud neigh that seemed like a call.
A squawk was the only warning Larkin got before an oversized bird bulleted through the air toward her. Since Teague’s flock wouldn’t attack her, it could only be one of Ronin’s.
Sharply turning its way, she threw an orb of hellfire at it. Missed. Ugh.
She emitted a rain of hell-ice chips at the winged fucker, smiling at its screech of pain. Then she rocketed toward it. The raven’s pace faltered, as if it hadn’t expected her to meet it head-on.
Another raven came out of nowhere and slammed into the side of her would-be-attacker, unbalancing and knocking it aside. The little shit somehow managed not to drop to the ground, but nor did it come at Larkin again.
It didn’t get the chance.
A bunch of ravens descended on it. Feathers and pained screeches peppered the air, delighting her entity—it was thoroughly enjoying itself right now, loving the ‘show’.
Figuring Teague’s flock didn’t need her aid, Larkin turned back to Ronin and who were likely his unit. Raising her hands, she targeted them again. Chips of hell-ice arrowed down and burrowed into their flesh. Some flinched and kicked out with their back legs.
Between sending out clusters of hell-ice, she slammed the hellhorses with orbs of hellfire. She paid particular attention to the legs, wanting to ensure said legs failed them fast.
