I suggest before taking another step back, just in case he tries to tackle-hug me right now. I mean, we’re still technically in the middle of a battle, but I wouldn’t put it past him.
Nefta’s warrior scream fills the night air once again, interrupting our moment, and I look over to see that once again, she’s working with Tazreel, and they’re both fighting Morax now.
“Let’s go kill that fucker,” I snarl as I start stomping off toward the fight. Iceman’s icy-numbness did wonders to help, and now I no longer feel like vomiting every time I move.
“I love it when you get all ruthless,” Echo says as they all move to join me.
“Just don’t let him fuck with my head, okay?” I tell them, but before anyone can reply or ask what I mean, a roar reverberates all around us, and our heads snap in the direction of the mausoleum. The gargoyle is still on the roof like some kind of battle announcer, and it seems like he’s calling any surviving demons back to the Gate, because the horde starts to retreat.
“May I?” Jerif asks, eyeing my scythe and holding his hand out expectantly. I hand it over, and he flips it until the straight blade is facing down. All of a sudden, the curved blade folds down, and in three strides, Jerif chucks my Swiss Army scythe through the air. It moves like a spear through the night and, in a poof, hits its gargoyle target right in the chest, instantly turning him to ash.
“How did you do that?” I ask, shocked and a little jealous that the scythe listened to him and transformed easily into what he wanted it to.
“I just told it what to do in my head,” he answers with a shrug, like it’s as easy as that.
I huff out a sigh and look out at where my scythe-spear is now sticking out of the mausoleum roof. Walking stick, broomstick, spear...that thing is seriously versatile. I just need it to work with me.
“Come,” I call to it, holding my palm up expectantly.
Nothing happens.
“Come on, don’t make me look bad! Heel!” I tell it in my best alpha bitch commanding voice.
Still nothing. It just stands there proudly, straight blade stuck into the pile of ash on the rooftop like it’s claiming territory.
I huff out an exasperated breath.
Nefta’s voice pops up in my mind. “Have you named her yet?”
I don’t let myself debate the merits of naming the weapon, I just decide to go with the first thing that pops in my head. It probably won’t work anyway. I think my scythe likes me nice and annoyed.
“Queen of Hearts, get your ass back down here!” I order it.
And what the fuck do you know...the scythe disappears from the roof of the mausoleum and reappears in my hand less than a millisecond later.
Well, shit. Looks like this little lady just got a name.
I beam at it, feeling a part of my heritage snapping into place. “Come on,” I tell the guys, and the five of us rush forward, but most of the demons are either dead or running. They heard the gargoyle’s signal, and the mass that was still pushing to surround the Ophidian protectively are now racing toward the mausoleum to escape through the portal.
“Jerif, with me. We’ll head them off!” Iceman calls, and he and Jerif race toward the mausoleum, ready to cut down the demons who are daring to run away with their tails between their legs. The last thing we want is to let them go to regroup and attack again.
Echo, Crux, and I continue making our way to where Nefta and Taz are fighting Morax. As soon as we get closer, I can make out the three dark silhouettes, made easier by the fact that night is waning.
Nefta has a long, bloody gash in her thigh, making her limp, and Taz is holding one short sword now with his left hand, while his right hangs strangely, like his shoulder has been popped out of joint. The three of them are a blur of movement as they attack, then move away from each other, readying to parry again.
Every time Nefta and Taz try to get Morax stuck between them, the slippery medusa demon moves away or attacks, forcing them to both face him head-on again. With a ruthless swing of his sword, he tries to take off Taz’s head, which Pride barely is able to stop from happening by a quick side step, forcing Nefta