5 Onslaught (4 page)

4

It doesn’t
speak, but I can feel its consciousness humming inside my head. Despite the
mental intrusion, I’m committed to my attack. I draw Whipsnap back, aiming to
thrust the bladed end through the breast-bone of the harpie now letting out a
panic-stricken squawk. But as my arm shoves the blade forward, the huge
gatherer-centaur does something to my mind, severing the connection between my
thoughts and my body.

My
leap becomes a ragdoll tumble. I crash to the ground landing hard in the
trampled grass.

Then,
something in my mind pushes back.

Hard.

The
centaur is repelled, and I regain control of my body as the giant rears back in
pain.

What was that?
I wonder, as I climb to my feet. I was
so taken aback by the appearance and sudden mental intrusion of the Nephilim
centaur that I didn’t have a chance to put up some kind of cerebral fight. The
force that pushed the centaur back wasn’t me, and Ull, my former split
personality with a bad temper, is now fully a part of me.
So what repelled the creature?

A question for another time,
I decide as a griffin lunges.

The
griffin ripples with lion muscles. Its large paws are tipped with eagle talons,
black and needle sharp. Its head is all oversized eagle. Its hooked beak is
open wide, blasting a high-pitched shriek as its ten-foot wings pull it up into
the air above me and then propel it straight down like a two-ton mortar round.

While
pulling one hand back, readying a strike, I raise the other toward the griffin,
willing the wind to catch its wings. The giant creature should have been
catapulted away.

But
it continues to dive toward me.

There
isn’t even a breeze.

And
I am out of time.

I
fall back, flat on the grass. A second later, the griffin lands over me, its
lion paws framing me on either side. Its eagle eyes lock onto mine, looking
down at me. Its beak hangs open, as though in surprise. A bead of purple blood
slips down the lower beak, gathering at the end and dangling above my forehead.

Nephilim
blood can heal a human being, if
its
severely watered
down. Fresh from the body, even a small amount is enough to kill. Most Nephilim
heal before they can lose too much of it, but this is not a normal demon-child.
The lower beak is filling with the purple fluid.

The
dangling drop stretches out slowly and then breaks loose. My eyes cross as I
follow the bead of blood’s descent, but I lose sight of it a moment before it
smacks my forehead.

And
that’s when I feel it.

Nothing.

The
fact that these creatures are unable to heal has removed the deadly
side-effects of their inhuman blood. Of course, that also means the griffin
standing above me, with the bladed end of Whipsnap punching all the way through
its neck, is about to collapse.

Pushing
hard with my feet, I slide out from under the griffin just in time. The ground
shakes as the heavy beast lolls to the side and topples over. Purple blood
oozes into the grass around its head.

When
the ground shakes again, I spin around and find a stone-tipped club coming
toward my face. I lean back, dodging the weapon with just inches to spare. It’s
a
minotaur
, all mottled hair and musky stench. The
club looks small in its massive arms, but the swing overextends the creature,
leaving it open to attack...if I had a weapon. I glance back to Whipsnap, still
buried in the bird-lion’s throat, and I find two more griffins charging in from
behind.

For
a moment, I think,
where is Kainda
,
but then I’m forced to act. Before the
minotaur
can
recover from its missed blow, I leap toward it. While in motion, I reach into a
pouch on my right hip, pull out my homemade climbing claws and slip them onto
my hands. The claws, fashioned from feeder leather and feeder teeth, line my
palms for climbing and my knuckles for punching. They aren’t great for killing
Nephilim, but they don’t feel good, either.

I
leap up to the
minotaur’s
left shoulder, grip handfuls
of its course, clumpy hair and swing myself around to its back. The creature
huffs in aggravation, but doesn’t react like I pose much of a threat. But
hunters do not need weapons to kill, nor control over the elements. And since
these monsters are Nephilim, I have no reason to hold back. It’s like fighting
robots.
Or zombies.
There is no moral roadblock
stopping me from inflicting maximum damage.

I
wrap my legs around the creature’s waist, locking myself in place, and punch
the two-inch long, pointed teeth of my climbing claws into its back. The
minotaur
howls in pain and pitches forward. I twist my
hands, carving trenches into its flesh. The giant drops forward, lowering its
head like a true bull, just in time collide with one of the two charging
griffins.

Several
things happen at once. The
minotaur’s
horn—it only has
one—pierces the griffin’s chest and snaps free. The griffin’s wail is cut short
when the horn slips through its lung. Meanwhile, the
minotaur’s
scream of pain is silenced when I wrap my hands around its neck and leap away,
drawing six blades across its throat. The second griffin collides with the
first and the
minotaur
, and tumbles wildly through the
grass, crushing a pair of harpies before coming to a stop.

I
land beside the
minotaur
. Without missing a beat, I
snatch his crude club from the ground and rush the second griffin. One of its
eagle eyes snaps open just in time to see me bring the heavy stone down on its
head. As I turn to face the others, I’m thinking about Whipsnap. If I can get
my weapon back, this will be a whole lot easier. But when I face down my
enemies again, the chaos of battle I’m expecting is nowhere to be found.

The
mythological creatures have gathered in a sort of formation. Two lines of harpies,
feathers puffed up and bristling, followed by gorgons and basilisks and then
finally a row of
minotaurs
. The griffins have all
taken to the skies and are circling like buzzards.

The
giant centaur, its gray-bald head gleaming in the sunlight, stands at the front
of the rough-looking formation. It lowers its head toward me, not in reverence,
but in emphasis for its mentally spoken word.

Ours.

He
motions to his hooved feet. Mira lays, still motionless, in the grass. Her face
is coated in dirt and dried blood. Her clothing, an olive-drab green,
camouflage, combat uniform, is tattered and torn. Her jacket—if she had one—is
missing, revealing a black tank top that’s equally torn, showing her brown
skin. The tightness of the shirt also lets me get a good look at her back,
which rises and falls with each shallow breath.

Still
alive.

Thank God.

I am
simultaneously filled with relief and fierce determination. I didn’t come this
far to find Mira, only to let her be killed and consumed by this freakish lot.
I grip the club tighter and step toward the centaur.

Its mind
hums inside my head, pushing for a weakness.

I take
another step forward, working on a battle plan.
Centaur
first.
Take out the knees. Then put this club in its forehead. I’m not
certain, but I think that if I can drop the big guy, the rest of the myth-squad
will head for the hills.

The
centaur rears up for a moment and then stomps its hooves on the ground. The
display is very horse-like, but it’s coupled with a mental shout.

Mine!

No
, I think back, stepping forward.

The
mythological creatures stomp and shout, shaking weapons, feathers and limp
snakes. They’re angry and agitated, but I think there is some fear in there.

The
buzzing in my head grows stronger and it happens again. My mind and body disconnect.
I fall to my knees, but then a surge of power from somewhere within me repels
the giant. The centaur-gatherer rears up, clutching its head and letting out a
shrill scream.

I have no
idea what is happening to him when he digs down into my mind, but I can’t
complain. I’d be a mythical-creature readymade meal without it.
Whatever
it
is.
And while the centaur
has
managed to
keep me from using my powers, my body is still under my control.

I step
forward again, looking up at the centaur. It’s absolutely massive. Its knee
caps—my intended targets—are twice the size of a basketball. I’m going to have
to hack at it like a manic lumberjack to do any real damage. I glance back to
the jungle.
Where are you Kainda?

Mine! Mine!
“Mine!”

The last
“mine,” is shouted. The voice is high-pitched, almost fragile sounding, but the
anger in it is powerful, like a child throwing a tantrum when a toy is about to
be taken away. But the shout is coupled by a sudden and jarring psychic attack
that drops me back to the ground and makes me shout out in pain.

I can
feel the strange force inside me, fighting back, pushing hard, but the centaur
retains its grip on my mind. My body twitches and I fall onto my back, looking
up at the sky. The earth shakes beneath me as the centaur clomps toward me.
Then it looms above me, looking down with those black, almond shaped eyes. Its
thin lips are pulled back in a sneer that reveals two lines of rotting,
cracked, horse-like teeth. Its eyebrows are deeply furrowed, punctuating the
hate radiating from its body—and its thoughts.

It lifts
a single hooved foot above my head. All it has to do is stomp, and I’ll be
dead. The great Solomon Ull Vincent, the last hunter, vessel of Nephil, slayer
of Nephilim, destroyer of a good portion of the planet and promised leader of
the human race is about to be killed by a centaur-gatherer with the disposition
of a five year old.

Honestly,
it’s embarrassing. But I’m currently unable to do anything about it.

The force
inside me rallies, delaying the centaur’s attack, keeping its hoof locked in
place.
What is going on?
I think.
Is there a mind outside mine that’s fighting
the creature?

Luca, is that you?
I think, but I get no reply. Before he
died, Xin, one of several clones of me, bestowed the gift of telepathic communication
on Luca, also a clone, and a perfect replication of me at age six. But while
Xin was part gatherer, Luca is all human, and I doubt the child, as strong as
he is, could put up much of a mental fight against a creature with thousands of
years of practice.

There is
no reply to my silent question. Instead, the battle is brought to a very sudden
and violent conclusion.

There is
a grunt off to my side. I recognize the voice.

Kainda.

But
before this can fully register, her hammer flies into view above me, striking
the centaur in the side of his hairless, plump head. The weight of the weapon
crushes bone and implodes the cranium.

At the
very moment the skull is ruined, my body and powers return to me. I roll back onto
my feet and the wind carries me away from the now falling centaur. There is a
deep, resonating boom as the giant body topples over, its legs jutting straight
out, almost comically, frozen by its surprise death.

I turn
and face the remaining mythological creatures,
who
appear enraged and confused.

Kainda
wanders onto the battlefield almost casually. She looks at me. “Sometimes
timing is more powerful than body count.”

I must
have a big, fat, “Huh?” written all over my face, because she smiles and explains.
“Kat taught me that.
Thought it made sense.”

She stops
by the centaur’s head, reaches down and tugs at the hammer. It comes free with
a slurp, dripping purple blood. She turns and faces the horde of creatures.
They stare at her for just a moment.

I suddenly
feel like I’m watching a herd of wildebeest staring down a lion, each creature
growing more tense with each passing second until one of them cracks, lets out
a yelp and then bolts. Suddenly, it’s chaos. The creatures shout and shriek,
tearing away in random directions, making
themselves
even more pitiful and shaming their names.

While the
creatures flee, I run to Mira and kneel down beside her limp form. She’s still
breathing. I feel for a pulse. It’s strong. “Mira,” I say. “Wake up.” I tap her
face with my hand.
“Mira.”

“Harder,”
Kainda says and then grins. “If you’re not up to it, let me wake her.”

There’s a
high-pitched wail from inside the jungle. A moment later, three harpies charge
back into view. I lift Mira into my arms while Kainda readies for a fight. But
the harpies steer clear of us. They’re terrified. So terrified, in fact, that
they bolt straight past us and run right off the cliff, plummeting to their
deaths.