In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2)

In the Lair of the Draca (Book 2) Chapter 62: Once-Daughter

A pair of jaws around Doora's neck jolted her from a fitful sleep.

"Wake, little sister," came a bell-like voice in her ear. Even in her panic, Doora recognized it: it was Disha. Sweet, obedient Disha, who had always done whatever she was told and gone out of her way to be especially pleasing-- more than likely to keep Dragura's poisonous nails away from her tender eyes.

What is happening to me? Doora wanted to ask, even as her trachea (normally as rock-strong as a section of bolberry tree root) began to collapse beneath the pressure of Duscha's arrow-like teeth.

Disha's breath was like a volcanic gust. "Our little Mother, our Sister, asks that you be awake in your final moments," she breathed. "For even as you must die for your horrible misdeed with the Evening folk boy, Duscha assures you that, in Death, you shall live."

The ever-quiet Deema crouched in the shadows, panting anxiously as Disha knelt by the struggling Doora. Flipping onto her back in an instinctual effort to free herself, Doora writhed and pounded her helpless wings into the ground. Back legs straggled at Duscha's tender underbelly, raking foot-long sections of cherry-red streaks, but still Duscha's jaws closed ever tighter. Blood bubbled at the torn sections of Doora's throat, resurfacing in her palate and on her swollen tongue.  Her eyes blinked a single question:

Have I not suffered enough?

"In suffering and Death, you shall come to life," Disha continued sadly. "Your bones will help Ziuta to acquire shelter. Your hide shall keep her safe from the rain and cool air, and your flesh shall keep her strong when she otherwise might succumb to weakness. Therefore, says little Mother, surrender and accept your fate. Ziuta cannot become one with the Draca without you-- without us."

Like a dying snake, Doora's tail wrapped itself futilely round Duscha's neck, lingering there, tightening...until teeth pierced the thick cartilage of her windpipe and crunched, eerily akin to the sound Doora's own teeth had made when she had done away with the Evening folk boy. Her back legs kicked, and her tail spasmed once, then twice, then a final time before her almond-shaped eyes took on the glazed and dull look of the dead.

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Luka nudged Kind Heart in the side.  "There he is again," he hissed.

Kind Heart was awake in an instant-- they had both fallen asleep with their backs to the palisade walls, Ziuta curled up in a small ball between them-- and fixed his eyes onto the horizon, scanning the open plains that stood between Looks Thrice and Hallow's Wood. "Where?" he asked. "I don't see--"

"Hush! He'll know he's being talked about!"

Luka's hands gripped his dagger tightly. Kind Heart's quiver full of arrows lay propped against the palisade walls, their needle-sharp points glinting in the star-light.

Panting in the field perhaps thirty meters away from them stood Brindle, his sagging belly low to the ground and crushing the blue daisies which had sprouted for the Spring season. His triple-spiked tail stood straight out behind him, in the manner of grouse-flushing dogs who plunge into the bushes and alert their handlers to the presence of prey. Four stout legs, slightly bowed, planted themselves into the dirt like tree trunks, while light from the stars dappled his sepia-toned hide with many sparkles. His thick neck swiveled toward them, revealing a snout uglier than any wild boar any huntsman ever caught. From across the field, Brindle demonstrated his triumph with a grating, hyena-like cackle:

Hai-ai-ai-ai-ai!

Kind Heart reached for his quiver and drew out a bow, wrapping his long finger around the shaft. Brindle noticed the movement with his sharp eyes and lifted his lip in a silent warning, as if to say: