Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
The mystery shells maybe? Shells meant…eggs?
Or they could be a joke. A woman once filled Jasher’s pack with rocks to tease him about working harder. But no. I’d packed the bag. I would never sabotage myself. Not on purpose.
What if the stones were some kind of weapon? Or used to make serpens-rosa?
Why hadn’t I told myself what this stuff was? Lava libraries? Mooing oceans? Really? It was like I was trying to fail.
My ears pricked, and I forced my gaze forward. Watched through foliage as a line of soldiers pushed into the refuge, armor clinking, horses of various colors stamping a dirt path.
The soldiers moved like men with experience in the trenches: steady and practiced. Overcoming them wouldn’t be easy.
One of them caught sight of Jasher lounging against the oak, at ease with his wings folded in that careless arrogance, and froze. A panicked shout split the air.
“Monstra!”
The tempo of everything changed in a hurry. Horses reared in fright. Soldiers snapped to attention, their hands sliding to sword hilts, bows finding shoulders. The sudden crack of a bowstring trembled through my bones.
My hand flew to my mouth to smother a shout. The men didn’t strike, not yet, giving me a chance to take stock. Thin faces etched with shock were visible beneath dented helmets streaked with soot. Their breastplates were battered—and bore the royal crest. Part of the royal army?
Okay, so, forget the weapons I didn’t have and screw the element of surprise. New plan: get between Jasher and trouble and distract the soldiers, giving my Tinman a chance to flee. If he would.
He wouldn’t.
Maybe I could convince the men to leave. I was a precious water maiden oracle, after all. The Great and Terrible, apparently.
Before my foot even left the dirt, arrows loosed. One struck the tree. The other whooshed past it, slicing across my bicep. Burning pain spidered out. I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood, remaining silent. An accident, since I hadn’t been noticed, but still an agony.
Jasher shifted with that same lazy nonchalance, avoiding injury. When the archers released a second set of arrows, my monstra became motion. A savage comet of wings and muscle. He detonated, whipping oxygen into a knife while twisting his body to avoid the lethal volley.
Our visitors panicked when they realized they’d failed. They prepared for combat.
Jasher landed with absolute calm, his claws scraping dirt. “Do that again,” he drawled, voice silk threaded with malice. “And I start collecting heads.”
The provocation hit, a match to tinder. A chorus of astonishment rose from the men.
“It’s talking.”
“It’s part man.”
“We take it to the king! Dead!”
Ahav was the only king in this era.
So new, new plan: Trust Jasher to do…whatever he planned. At least a bit longer. If I stepped in, they’d want to take me to see the king and queen, too. Exactly as my mother had outlined at the farmhouse.
I shouldn’t let the past repeat? Right?
But… I wanted to see Mom. Wanted to meet my biological father. Needed to read Morris’s journals for myself. Do a little more studying before heading to Mount Emerald. Maybe King Ahav would provide an armed escort to the mountain, helping us get through the monstra.
Jasher dialed his setting up to beast-mode, an axe suddenly gripped in each palm. “Come at me. If you dare.” But he didn’t wait for them to try. No, he launched forward.
Men jabbed at him and swiped in defense, steel ringing. Three soldiers went down with savage thuds, but two quickly got back up with only surface injuries. The third wasn’t quite as steady. The air filled with the sounds of battle: ragged breathing, the wet percussion of split flesh, and the metallic song of drawn swords.
Jasher kept his word, never rendering a death blow, so the men just kept coming at him.
Okay, enough. I grabbed the pack and raced forward, heart a war drum as I planted myself between Jasher and the men.
“Stop!” I commanded. The rawness of my raised voice surprised even me. I lifted my arms to ward the soldiers off. Blood trickled from my wound, but my high-octane adrenaline held the worst of the pain at bay.
For a beat, no one moved. Then the soldiers’ rage morphed into awe. Mutters of “water maiden” rippled through the ranks, and their hands faltered.
Jasher dropped the axes and, in a blur of motion, pressed the front of his body against the back of mine. The pack thudded from my shoulder, hitting the ground. He wound his arms around me, setting his claws at my throat and the soft hollow of my belly. Threat and safety braided together. But I wasn’t afraid, and I didn’t know why. I remained rooted as his shield, perfectly content.
“Tsk, tsk,” he breathed against my ear, each word a small, deliberate punishment. “Jumping in front of me while men do their best to remove my head wasn’t wise, Oracle.” His claws tightened a fraction, the slight pressure a promise I’d best heed. “That eager for your gift, were you?”