Queen of Blood and Vengeance (Secrets of the Faerie Crown #4)

81. Cyara

81

CYARA

There was no reason to hold back the harpy. Cyara did not see the signal that Arran gave, but she did not need to. The terrestrial army began to move, and Cyara with it. She had not been assigned to a particular unit or command. There was no controlling the harpy once she broke loose. She was born of pain and fury and she desired only to rain those things down upon anyone and everyone foolish enough to cross her path.

Cyara rose into the air, her wings beating against the cool morning air. Another few seconds and she would not feel the cold. The harpy couldn’t feel such mundane things. She rose and rose and rose, high above the valley and the army that had almost reached the black horde. Lines of efficiently organized terrestrials marched in perfect formation. She watched as the wave of black chaos broke against them, undulating back from the force, then slipping through the cracks. The succubus spread like a virus, streams of black that infected.

There were many soldiers in the army below without amorite piercings. Many without amorite weapons. Still, they marched. Cyara had not been able to sleep, the screams too intense to bear. Hundreds of soldiers turned to succubus in the night, unprotected by amorite, too close to the horde. They’d been slaughtered unilaterally. She’d heard their dying gasps.

Now she would decimate those who’d brought that darkness. The succubus who’d come for her friends and her queen.

She scanned the field, letting her eyes see past the mass of fighting to the individuals within. Three fae warriors held off a succubus who’d taken over a male nearly as large as Arran. Another clawed its way up one of their backs. But a wide-winged bird of prey swooped in and plucked the head from its desiccated body.

A female scream sliced through the air, reaching her above all the others. It took too long for her to locate the source—a red-haired female in dark armor, swinging a morning star with one hand and slicing with a dagger in the other. But she was overwhelmed by the succubus bearing down on her, the other soldiers around her occupied with their own attackers. The female was already bleeding from a gash to her clavicle. She was going to die, there was nothing Cyara could do. She should find another target.

The red-headed female screamed again.

The harpy did not care for reason. She burst from the shell she occupied inside of Cyara, clawing her way to the surface. Cyara felt the tingling burn of her skin changing, thickening into an armor that the succubus’ teeth could not penetrate. Claws sprang from her fingernails, curving and sharpening into talons meant for ripping apart male flesh.

Males. Males killed her sisters. Males destroyed her father.

Males deserved to be punished. They should die.

Die. Die. Die.

Her leathery wings scissored through the air as the harpy dove for her first victim.

The dead do not scream. But the dying do.

She swept down again and again, saving the females beset by the males of darkness. Weak, feeble males who surrendered their minds. How easily they became prey to those beings from another world. Leaving their females undefended, feasting upon them. She could not allow it. She fell upon them, ripping limbs and hands and heads. Their taste was vile, corrupted. But they died and it did not matter how they tasted.

Down she dove again, to a female with blonde hair so pale it was nearly white, a beautiful female that reminded her of someone that she loved. A terrible shrill cry ripped from her mouth. She did not love. She killed.

A male monster clawed its way across the ground, its legs a mess that could not support it. But it reached the female, sinking the jagged tips of its bony fingers into her legs. Blood flooded her senses. Too much blood. She angled her body, grabbing the monster with her talons and ripping it away. Those deadly talons severed mangled sinew and bone, raining black bile down up on the armies below.

She landed hard in the muck, the red-orange desert long stained black. Another. She needed another. Another male, another to kill. Vengeance. Death. Die—

Pain wrenched up her wing. She screamed as she turned, her talons already reaching. Another male, this one’s eyes clear. Scared of her—he should be scared of her. She was the monster he’d made her. All of them, with their bloodlust. Now, she would feast upon theirs. His.

“Cyara! Put him down!”

Her head turned. A male voice—that dared to command her.

She hissed through her teeth, the male who’d thrown the dagger still clutched in her talons, feet dangling uselessly. Useless like the male he was.

“He did not mean to hurt you,” the newcomer cried. Another male, dark hair, brown eyes that stared at her with intention. With knowing. He could not know her. It was impossible.

“Put him down.”

She dropped the male in her talons, a new quarry in her sights.

“The succubus,” he said. He did not back away. Stupid male. “The succubus are the ones you want. Not me.”

She grabbed him from the ground like he was nothing. He was nothing. Her talons snapped the vines he tried to summon. Puny male. He could not hurt her, could not hold her. He stopped struggling. Good, he realized. Oh, he’d make a tasty meal.

“Hurting me means hurting Maisri.”

Her talons stopped from breaking skin.

“You love Maisri. You would never hurt her.”

Maisri. She did not know that name. She could not love. Love was a weakness. Love allowed males to hurt her. This male would hurt her, just like all the others had.

An image flashed in her mind. A daisy spreading across a child’s palm. Another—dark curls and bubbling laughter. A face, heart-shaped and sweet.

Maisri.

The harpy dropped him and shot into the air.