When Nelle Wychthorn was forced to sign herself away in marriage, she should have read the contract's fine print. Because she signs not with ink, but with blood. And that changes everything.
Season 1 'Of Crows and Thorns'
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Fiery Nelle, the isolat...
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In a rush of motion, I reached over my shoulder to unsheath my wyrm sword.
Dazzling sunlight glanced off razor-sharp bone as I raised the sword high—
To punch down hard.
The blade sliced cleanly through the roof of the SUV. Beads of sweat trickled down my spine as I sawed feverishly like I was opening up a can of sardines and those inside were flapping fish caught in a net, meeting their deaths at the keen edge of my blade.
Skewering—
Spearing—
Stabbing—
Their screams and death throes deafened the roar of the car's engine.
Yanking my sword free, droplets of blood scattered wide as I twisted around.
And then I was pushing forward, moving fast—
Leaping to slam on top of the car's hood, spinning around and arching my spine, both hands wrapped tightly around the knotted hilt—
I drove the sword right through the reinforced windshield—
Cracks spiderwebbed across the glass—
And the car veered as the driver lost control—
I pitched sideways. As the car shuddered and shifted beneath me, I swiftly braced myself and slipped the wyrmblade back into its sheath. It gave a sound like a humming sigh as it slid back into the leather. Then I was snatching up my daggers once more. In a violent burst of movement, I kicked in the windshield. Glass shattered and scattered like a handful of diamonds across velvet.
The front passenger aimed his gun directly at my forehead—
A crossing of my twin daggers at his wrist and I cleaved through flesh and bone.
He screamed in agony. The severed hand holding the gun fell onto the dashboard, bounced up and down with the vibration of the road, before sliding onto his lap. His ruddy features were twisted in agony as he clutched the stump of his hand with the other. Blood poured freely, turning his uniform stickily wet. A look of utter disbelief flashed across his expression just as my dagger plunged through his forehead, giving a wet, sucking pop as it withdrew.
There was no time. I had to keep moving for Nelle. I had to catch up to the next SUV.
Reaching forward, I snatched hold of the driver by the back of his head and smashed his face down on the steering wheel. Once, twice—
Once more—
Disoriented, he blinked, woozily swaying, and I punched him with the hilt of my dagger. The impact smashed fragile bones—caving his face in, splitting skin, and fracturing bone that pierced his brain in fatal slivers. His bloodied, mangled head flopped forward as his corpse slumped against the steering wheel.
