Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 132138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 661(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 661(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
I can kill the whole village. I pull my sword free as a large guard attacks. It’s easy now that I’ve given in to my purest instincts. I fought for so long. I fought the death magic, and I fought this deep desire that forms the core truth of Lachlan McIver.
I’m an animal, an instrument of pure death.
I let go. There’s nothing but vengeance now. I’ll fight and fight until someone puts me down. This plane took my Bronwyn, and it will run red with blood. I don’t care who I kill as long as I continued to kill.
I move my sword. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of my mind, I realize that my warriors are following me now. When I move my sword, slicing through a guard’s neck, my warriors do the same, a grandly choreographed dance of death.
Something warm and rich-smelling coats my hand. Blood. Sweet blood. My fangs are out, practically crying for a taste. Another part of myself I buried. I feel something hit my back. An ache begins but I ignore it. I reach around and toss the man aside, his big body hitting the dirt. He’s vulnerable, helpless, his throat wide open because his helm is gone. It would be so sweet to drain the guard dry, to drink him down until his legs stop twitching, his blood strengthening me.
But I won’t. This piece of me will remain buried no matter how insane I go. There will be no first blood for me. There will be no first woman. There will be no sex.
My soul’s mate is gone and with her all that would have been sweet. Now there will be only death and wasted blood and revenge.
My sword thrusts again and again. Two guards and then three attack, ignoring the corpses. Pain blooms in my side, but I push it away. The savage joy of battle is all that matters. They all fall to my sword and one to my bare hands. Oh, I enjoy that one. I love the cracking of bones and the splitting of skin.
I hid it all because I feared my mate would think me a monster, but my mate is gone and the worlds can quake for all I care now.
I feel drunk—on the death, on the blood, on the power. I am Lachlan McIver, King of the Dead.
“Well done, Your Highness.” The phooka sits on the thatched roof of a house directly in front of me. I can see eyes staring my way. Terrified villagers who hide behind their shutters and likely pray I take no notice of them. “You killed them all. No more guards left to eviscerate. Are you planning to start on the farmers? When you kill them all, you can move on to the children.”
My sword trembles as my hands shake. The need to kill is an actual presence in my system. It flows through me, warring with all other instincts. I can feel my corpse warriors standing behind me, waiting for my next command. Waiting for me to tell them who to kill next.
The phooka wrinkles his nose, his tail twitching. Claws drag along the roof making a nasty scratching sound. “There are four right in here, Your Highness. Four souls for you to take. A man. A woman. Two children. Think of the blood. Think of the screams.”
Something about the little devil’s voice makes me shiver. Or the fact that I can suddenly see myself slaughtering children. This is why I shoved my warrior half so far down. I am a monster.
“Lachlan!”
I let the sword drop, turning. My heart is pounding. Bron is dead. None of it matters. If I continue, I’ll kill the families in their houses. I’ll plunder and pillage and then call their dead bodies to serve me.
And it won’t bring her back.
I look at my brother. I failed Shim as well. Without our mate, Shim will fade. I’ll go mad. I’ll have to be put down.
I failed everyone.
Shim stands in the middle of the square. The fire that previously burned there is gone, only ashes surrounding the pole where they bound her. I always envisioned her in bondage, my hands tying her lovingly to prepare her for play. This is a perverted vision of what should be loving.
Bronwyn’s delicate body lies in Shim’s arms, her limbs utterly limp, her head falling back. The sword slips from my hand. If another attacks, I’ll let death come. I’ll join my mate.
Shim hoists her up, cradling her to his chest. “Lach, we have to go. Where are we going to go? We need a healer. Something’s wrong with me.”
Everything is wrong. Bron is gone.
“Lachlan? Shim?” A feminine voice cuts through my misery.
I turn and, for a moment, my heart softens. She wears different clothes, peasant clothes, but I know this woman. She’s my sister. My Gilly, the girl who laughed with us, brought us our first horses.