Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 127527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 638(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 638(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
It dumped the fallen chupacabra on the ground and then charged at the next threat. With each new enemy, the hellhorse went in fast and hard—its aim to cause maximum damage swiftly. It intended to save its strength for its duel with Ronin’s demon.
Around it, the steed’s clan battled other chupacabras. Fallen angels attacked the rest of the pack. Airborne birds bit and raked at others. Hounds savaged and clawed their foes.
Ronin and the other trespassing hellhorses continued to do nothing. They remained still. Watchful. Were probably waiting for the clan to be killed, or for them to be so weak they were easy prey for the hellhorses.
A mistake.
Teague’s steed never made easy prey. Neither did its clan members.
The battlefield was a cacophony of sounds. Hellfire flames hissed and spat. Bones snapped and crunched. Ultraviolet orbs whooshed and crackled. Roars, snarls, yelps, screeches, barks, and grunts blended with the perverse laughter coming from the Black Saints.
The chupacabras were fast and vicious and tireless. They didn’t give an inch. Didn’t back down. Didn’t give mercy. But they stood no chance against their opponents.
Not against the fallen angels’ raw power and primitive brutality.
Not against the hellhorses’ arsenal of vast strength, incredible speed, lethal venom, noxious smoke, and fiery breaths.
Still, the pack fought on.
Turning away from a dead chupacabra, the hellhorse quickly lunged at another. It savaged the creature with its teeth and hooves; reveled in its yelps, enjoyed its pain, relished the sight of its injuries. The chupacabra weakened more and more under both the pressure of the attack and the effects of the steed’s venom. A brutal kick to the head finished it off.
The hellhorse stood still a moment, its sides heaving as its breaths sawed in and out of its throat. It could feel blood dripping down its coat; could feel the heat of many injuries. Bites. Claw marks. Puncture wounds that came from chupacabra-spines.
Amped up on adrenaline and bloodthirst, it shelved the pain and ignored the fatigue that threatened to invade its muscles. It wasn’t difficult. Not when each inhale fed its hunger to kill, the air laced with the drugging scents of blood, pain, and fear.
Another chupacabra charged at it. Clashing, they tore into each other. Fierce. Pitiless. Targeting existing injuries. It was—
The hellhorse flinched as teeth sank into its wounded flank. Refusing to remove its gaze from the opponent in front of it, the steed body-slammed its second attacker. It heard a crack as the creature collapsed to the ground. In its peripheral vision, the hellhorse saw it attempt to rise; saw it fail as one of the clan pounced.
Satisfied, the steed exhaled a powerful gust of hellfire that swept up the badly injured creature before it. The chupacabra backpedaled, yelping in pain. The hellhorse moved quickly. It clamped its jaws around its enemy’s skull and shook it viciously, tasting spurt after spurt of blood.
Something barreled into the hellhorse’s side. The jarring move almost knocked it over, causing it to drop the dying creature. It whirled fast, seeking the chupacabra that had dared blindside it. They clashed as they leaped at each other.
They were both brutal in their attack. Skin tore. Blood dripped. Chupacabra-bones cracked. As the creature’s wounded rear leg crumpled beneath it, making it topple to the ground, the steed took advantage—pouncing, stomping, crushing its skull.
Once its enemy was dead, the hellhorse puffed a breath out of its nostrils as it took a moment to look around. Its clan and their hounds were wounded but still fighting. Two dead birds from Ronin’s flock lay on the ground among feathers, bodies, ashes, and tufts of fur. The number of chupacabras had greatly fallen, but the Black Saints were still standing—battling.
As another chupacabra came at it, the hellhorse took a brief moment to wonder where its harpy was. Then it flew at its enemy.
Failing yet again to rip open the net, Larkin screeched in fury. The piercing sound burst up her eagle-form’s throat and echoed around the van so loud Holt winced. So she did it again. Louder.
Sighing, he slid his gaze skyward for a moment. “There’s no point in trying to tear the net, Larkin. No amount of biting or clawing will damage it.” He spoke like she was being childish by fighting to free herself.
He didn’t know her at all if he thought she’d sit back and bemoan her situation like a poor little damsel. Just as tenacious, her demon battered at her insides, refusing to admit defeat; intent on surfacing and getting to the male who not only held them captive but acted as though it was his right.
He rolled his eyes when she resumed raking and biting at the net. “Settle down. We’ll be at the airport soon enough. I have a private jet waiting there. Unfortunately, it will be an uncomfortable flight for you, since you must remain within the net, but there’s sadly nothing I can do about that.”