Four Suits (Book 1)

Day 40-4: Cops and Robbers

DAY 40-4: COPS AND ROBBERS

   Orian is a lot faster than Leda depicts. Has good stamina, too. It takes all the strength she has in her muscles to keep a tight hold on his shoulders. His feet are practically ghosted upon the forest floor as he breezes through the trees, past the snowy and icy hedges—all, in record time.

   It's as if the animalistic—the wolf part of him—is coursing through him like a second heartbeat.

   The whiplash makes it difficult to keep their eyes open, and no matter what they can't outrun the stench of blood.

   His legs start to ache but he doesn't have the leisure to look behind him. Albeit faint, he hears it. The swift footfalls. The heavy breathing and screaming. The abominable crashes of fallen tree after tree; catching up—catching them.

   Orian readjusts his hold on Leda's legs, grimacing as he does the same with his injured hand on her back.

   "Hey, I can run myself," Leda whispers.

   "Not yet," Orian grounds out.

   Just as Leda opens her mouth to refute, she's stopped by a blinding flash of white. It's as though a fist of orange flame has decided to punch its way out of the dirt. The forest goes up in flames. Smoke rushes out. Thousands of pieces of cripsed vegetation shower down. Like an alarm—shrill and deafening—it blares in their ears.

    Orian loses his footing. His hold on Leda slips and the both of them are hurled through the shockwave of burning inferno and debris, to opposite ends. It was only one moment of weakness, but Paola gains considerable distance as a result.

   The moment Orian opens his eyes again, Paola's body zooms right over him. He regains his senses, groggily. Landing on his feet, he skids through the snow and uses a hand as an extra means of balance. His vision swirls in a blurry haze. A headache pounds against his skull. He fumbles, footing unstable.

    Paola twists her body, thrusting her sword toward the ground without mercy. Leda blinks awake from the fuzziness of the smoke to see a glint. She rolls over in time to avoid Paola's sword. It clashes head-on with the ice, piercing the surface in seconds.

   Then, identical to an earthquake, the earth itself splits in two. Leda slides against the ice, clambering for balance the best she can. Her cheek stings—a light cut received from the speed of Paola's attack.

   But Paola doesn't allow her even a second to catch her breath. She pushes off the ice and effortlessly pries her sword embedded in the snow.

   Her clothes are torn, jagged from the explosion. She's inebriated, but her movements are insanely nimble; practiced.

   She's fast because she can levitate. Infuses her magic and physical strength into single, deadly blows.

    Leda can barely follow her with her eyes. She tries to stabilize her defensive stance. But there's no time.

    Black splotches flash across her vision. Her body shakes. There's no way she can dodge. There's no way they can fight her.

   This is where it ends.

   A wide smirk curves Paola's lips as her feet connect with the snowy floor. Her wrist flicks smoothly. Crimson is sent off her sword, splattering against the glistening white. She straightens her posture, tossing the bloodied head up and down in her free hand.

    Leda's eyes are soulless, the purple wig falling and landing where her headless body lies, splayed out with blood spilling from the gaping wound in her sliced neck.

    Cackles flood Paola's mouth as she pivots on her foot. Her widened, insanity-driven eyes shift toward a petrified Orian who's gawking a foot away. "One down," she slurs, her tongue sliding along her sword, "one more to go."