From “A Single Thread of Magic”
By Jenna Elizabeth Johnson, Coastal Dunes Branch
The crunch of dead leaves met my ears again, along with Fergus’s words: Get ready.
I slipped my hand into my boot, pulling out a long knife, pressing the dull side against my forearm so that I could stab if necessary.
In the next breath, the faelah leapt from the edge of the ravine and used the trunks of dead trees crisscrossing my path like ladder rungs to make its way down. The faelah came to rest only fifteen feet in front of me, a monster looking very much like a partially decomposed mountain lion. It growled at me, showing several long teeth, and twitched its reedy tail. Just as I had suspected, this one wasn’t going to let me lead it back into the Otherworld. Looks like it would have to be a kill. Not that I regretted it much. Most of the faelah had been alive at one time, but not anymore, not really. I bared my teeth in a grimace, hoping to intimidate the beast.
A flash of white caught the corner of my eye and a giant wolfhound joined us, using the same method the faelah had to reach the gully floor. He landed behind the creature, bearing his teeth and laying his rusty ears flat against his skull.
Kill? he sent to me.
Yes, this one will have to be a kill.
The beast howled and snapped its jaws before hunkering down on its hindquarters. Here goes . . .
With preternatural speed the faelah leapt, mouth gaping open, massive paws tipped with needle-thin claws outstretched. I froze for a fraction of a second, then with one swift movement, jerked my hand diagonally across my body, swiping the sharp edge of my blade against leathery skin.
The yowl in the monster’s throat died and I quickly sidestepped, letting the body hurtle past me. It landed in a tangled heap in the dirt, the head nearly severed from the rest of the body. Its limbs twitched a few times as black, putrid blood spilled from the open wound. I wrinkled my nose at the smell, but didn’t gag. I was used to the stench.
As I cleaned my blade I felt the faelah’s glamour swell like a bubble, growing larger and larger until it burst. There was nothing to see really, but my own well of magic felt it all the same. If there had been mortals around, they would now be gaping, dumbfounded at the atrocity lying at their feet. I didn’t even stay to make sure it turned to dust.
“Come on Fergus, time to go,” I said to the wolfhound.
Wounds? he sent to me.
No, not even a scratch. I was, after all, very good at my job.
This except appears courtesy of
Jenna Elizabeth Johnson, award-winning author of YA fantasy
and paranormal romance (www.jennaelizabethjohnson.com).