Lost in Cross: Princess

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Her laughter filled the night, and birds died in their nests.

Trees pulled up their roots and fled, grass went black beneath her feet, and she appeared to glide across the ground as she returned to the house.

I could see her from where I sat, my back to the wall, and my Colts in my hands. Around me were the remnants of her previous meals, the small bones gnawed and nicked by her teeth.

Clouds peeled away and allowed the moonlight to illuminate her, showing me both her beauty and her foulness. In her arms, she carried a small package, not much larger than a Sunday roast. Blood seeped through the paper, a fact for which I was grateful.

The house shuddered as she climbed the steps and crossed the porch, flinging the door open with one hand and striding into the room. She dropped her meal to the floor and stopped, her nostrils flaring.

Twisting around, she grinned at me, nodded, and motioned toward the far wall. The wood fell away as though it was a curtain, revealing a small dais and an elaborately carved chair. She climbed up, sat down, and faced me, resting her chin in her hand, jewels and riches, fabrics and brocades spreading out to cover her body.

“I know your face,” she told me.

I didn’t respond. I could hear the power in her voice, the seductive tones. She would seek to gain the pitch of my own voice and use it against me. I would hold my tongue until it was necessary.

She bristled at my refusal to engage in conversation.

“What is your name?” she demanded.

I allowed myself a small smile, and her eyes flashed orange.

She opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it closed, nostrils flaring. “You’re a Blood.”

I nodded.

A flicker of fear passed across her features.

“Which one?”

“Duncan.”

Her eyes widened, and when she spoke again, I saw jagged teeth and a black tongue. Before she uttered a word, I sent two rounds through her mouth.

They sent her head snapping back, blowing brains and bone across the wall, but still, she struggled to her feet.

It was too late for her.

I was already standing, Colts thundering, and rage guiding me.

She didn’t take long to die, but she sure as hell died hard.

#horror #fear #art #writing

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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