Demon's Trust (The Chronicles of Arcayos #1) - Raven Dark Page 0,3

floor.

Son of a bitch. Scar Face advances toward me.

I squeeze off a shot, aimed right at his chest.

There’s a blur of movement. The bullet hits the wall where he’d been standing.

How in the…

He closes in from the side. “Try again, gorgeous.” He wiggles his fingers at me and points at his face. “Right here. See what happens.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Big-And-Beefy stalks forward. He draws a rope out of his pants pocket and stretches it in front of me, a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.

I try to squeeze off another shot, but my finger won’t move. Damn it, Cassidy, fire! Don’t be a fucking chickenshit, fire!

The figure of a man drops and lands in front of me. Towering between me and my attackers, he’s a wall of black cloth draped over muscle.

I stagger back. What the hell? He came out of nowhere.

My head snaps up.

Jesus H. Christ, he’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. His features would be handsome, all strong lines and sharp angles, except his skin is a grayish blue, like something dead. Half-hidden by the hood of a huge black cloak, cracks mar his face, all flashing with a fiery, orange light, as if lava flows beneath his skin.

I try to scream, but nothing comes out.

He shoves me backward. I crash to the ground. My gun goes flying.

There’s a shimmer of white light. The light coalesces, forming a sword in his grip. The giant of a man spins to face my attackers, slipping into a smooth battle stance. The blade shimmers with a fierce, otherworldly glow.

My brain screams at me to run, but my legs won’t move. The attackers advance on him.

The one with the machete swipes at him—swinging it like a sword. The blades collide with a loud clang, sending off sparks.

The men dance a dance of battle, and the weapons clash. The newcomer’s movements are all swishes of black cloak and flashes of steel. He blocks a series of blows from his opponent, the movements almost too fast to see. He kicks the second man backward, sending him into the wall with a crash. Sharp hisses and punctuating roars accompany his movements, guttural and animal-like.

My rescuer blocks a blow from Scar Face’s machete. He shoves the guy back, blade on blade.

He swings his sword, a single stroke.

The man’s head flies off. It rolls to the floor, landing at my feet. His body crashes to the carpet. There’s blood everywhere. My stomach roils violently.

Big-And-Beefy lunges at the stranger, yelling in rage. The man in black swings again.

I jerk my head away. Body and head hit the floor with two distinct thuds.

Silence. The house is deafeningly silent, except for a deep, vibrating rumble, like an angry lion. I close my eyes. He can’t be there. This is all a dream, a horrible dream my mind has cooked up out of its hysteria.

I look up. Nope, still there.

I swallow. He’s a goddamned colossus. His eyes are an intense red, glowing like hot coals from inside the shadows of his deep hood. His gaze is so intense it hammers into me like heat.

I tear my eyes away, but a glint of metal draws my gaze to his chest. A medallion rests there—a flat, palm-sized golden disk with a strange symbol, complicated slashing lines that intertwine. The light from the window makes the symbol look as if it’s glowing.

The sword in his hand spins once. He swings it, and I can’t tell if he’s miming cutting off my head next, or if he’s just flourishing it. The blade glistens with that strange light. He smirks, a playful twist of his well-shaped lips.

Jesus Christ.

He wipes the blade on the folds of his cloak. The blade flickers and disappears as if it never was.

My eyes flick to the TV near him. Claire couldn’t have turned it off when the men came, but the screen is black.

He strides toward me, the strong, sure gait of a man born and bred for war. He’s decapitated two men, and he’s behaving like the knight who just rescued the fucking princess.

I fling my hand out, snatching up my gun. I point it at him. “St-stop right there!”

The man in black crouches down, prowling toward me like a giant cat. Fuck, he looks like he wants to eat me.

The gun is pointed right at him, but my finger won’t pull the trigger. Oh, God, why can’t I fire?

He makes an animal noise in his throat, a deep growl that I can only call possessive. His teeth flash, and