Page 94 of House of the Iron Reaper

The doomkin bears down on me and I swing at it’s skull face. Immediately, I realise my mistake.

The skull sinks inside its gooey body before I can hit it—instead, my fist sinks inside. It’s cold and sticky. The smell of it hits me at once, a stale copper tang, akin to the taste of faeth.

Blood, I realise. The thing is made from congealed blood.

I give a shriek of disgust and try to pull my fist back but it keeps a grip on me, snaking up my arm. Oh, Saints. Panic threatens as I pull back again, the ligaments in my shoulder protesting. The stink of it is unbearable.

Frantically, I half-turn and brace my boot against the sand. With a grunt, I swing my arm, taking the doomkin with it, and slam it against the ground. It splatters, flattening in the sand, but it still has a grip on my damn arm.

It starts to draw itself back together and I catch the white of its skull face briefly before it sinks again. With the way it’s protecting it, I know instinctively that must be its weakness. But my brain churns uselessly as I try to think of a way to get to it.

The doomkin has almost reformed. I try to swing it again but it’s prepared for me this time and clings to the ground with the same stubbornness it has around my arm. My feet slide out from under me and I land hard on my back.

The doomkin seizes its chance, grabbing onto my boots and swallowing my legs up to the shin.

No!

I yell a profanity at it and try to scramble back but it’s useless without any purchase. The chill of its ooze creeps up my legs and arm. Panic shoots through me like a wildfire and I buck against the ground, using my one free arm to claw at the blood around my arm. The stupidness of it does not register until the doomkin grabs my fingers.

I cannot run. I cannot fight. I’m going to drown in blood, alone and terrified.

The doomkin creeps up my body. It’s cold. It’s so fucking cold.

I cannot think.

The doomkin constricts around my chest like an icy manacle.

I cannot breathe.

It pins me against the ground, crawling up my throat. I stare at the night sky, gasping.

I cannot…

I…

Chapter 47

Deimos

The night before his fight

“Are you scared?”

Deyanara and I dangle our legs in the siren baths, as we have taken to doing after training. I had been staring at the cool water in quiet contemplation. Slipping into meditation comes easy after the many visits to the shrines over the years, but especially so around water. The push and pull of the tides or the mirror stillness of the baths—there is something hypnotising about water in all its forms.

So the question takes me off guard. I blink and look at Deyanara.

“Of course,” I tell her. “Even with the archers, I may die. I have almost died once, already. To be unafraid would be strange.”

Deyanara nods and slowly kicks her feet in the water.

“Then what made you come back to the Rites?” she asks quietly.

It is a good question. One I have thought about many times. One I have argued with my mother about many times. One I still do not have an answer to.

But fear radiates from Deyanara. Not just now, but almost always. She was afraid when she first came to Dragon’s Vale—Saints, she’s afraid when someone speaks to her. If I can do something to ease that, I will.

“Fear does not leave when we ignore it,” I say carefully. “It is a slow-moving beast but persistent, and it does not tire. It will follow you for the rest of your life.” I breathe deep. “If you let it.”