Bec (The Demonata, No. 4)
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As demonic Fomorii ravage their land, Bec and a band of warrior companions leave their devastated rath to answer a plea for help. An orphaned priestess-in-training, Bec hopes the journey will help her solve the mysteries of her birth. But fighting demons has a steep price...
fixed on the ring of stones...on us. I can’t see very well, but it looks to be a pale red color and curiously lumpy, as though made of wet clay. And it’s not standing on the ground — it’s floating. There’s something especially disturbing about this Fomorii. It’s not like any other demon I’ve seen. But before I can move forward for a closer look, Goll slaps my back and points me in the opposite direction, where the trees stand unguarded. “Run like the wind, Little One,” he says. “And for Neit’s
the burning drops of liquid that strike my skin. I mutter the words of a calming spell. Scota sighs and relaxes, eyes closing. I tug a small bag from my belt, open it, and pour coarse green grains into the palm of my left hand. Dropping the bag, I spit over the grains and mix them together with a finger, forming a paste. I rub the paste into Scota’s disfigured flesh and it stops dissolving. She’ll be scarred horribly but she’ll live. There are other pastes and lotions I can use to help the wounds
and the bees fly straight at the dog-spider, attacking its eyes, stinging it blind. The Fomorii whines and slaps at its eyes with its legs, losing interest in everything except the stinging bees. Ronan and Lorcan step up, one on either side. Four blades glint in the light of the torches — and four hairy legs go flying into darkness. The demon collapses, half its legs gone, sight destroyed. Ronan steps on its head, takes aim, then buries a knife deep in its brain. The dog-spider stiffens, whines
away, scratching at its neck, eyes bulging as it suffocates. Goll and Lorcan force the final demon over the cliff, pushing it off, only just avoiding a lashing tendril that threatens to drag them over with it. They glance around, make sure we’ve dealt with all the monsters, then rush off to help Ronan and Connla. Bran and I follow just behind. When Goll and Lorcan stop short I fear the worst. But running up, readying myself to cast more spells, I see the demons fleeing, Connla standing proudly
but I know what it is. “A map,” I mutter. “Aye,” Drust says, studying the map eagerly, reading it in ways I cannot. To the right there’s a shining dot, the size of my smallest nail. “That’s where the tunnel entrance lies?” Drust asks. “It Is.” “That’s not so far.” Drust looks excited. “We can be there in eight or nine days if we march hard.” “Indeed.” The map changes and the shape resumes its original, ever-shifting form. “But You Do Not Have Such Temporal Luxury.” Drust frowns. “What do you