Four-Letter Words by Evans, Gabrielle (top 10 books of all time .txt) 📗

There was still a lot he didn’t understand about the laws regarding magic, but Zasha was no one’s fool. It was no coincidence that him, Raven, and the werewolves had been drawn outside of that tunnel. They were meant to be separated from the Braddocks, and Zasha imagined it worked both ways. The Braddocks couldn’t cross into the room, while Zasha and the others couldn’t leave.

Essentially, they were all trapped.

If that weren’t bad enough, the uneasy feeling of certain death crept over him, bringing with it the realization that the plan had been designed this way. He was meant to die. Thane was meant to watch the scene play out before his eyes, tormented by the fact he could do nothing to stop it.

“Well, this is a pickle,” Raven announced as he unsheathed one of the daggers from his belt.

That was one way to put it. Zasha would have chosen something more suiting like “slaughter,” but arguing over phrasing wouldn’t change the outcome. The werewolves were snarling and snapping their impressive jaws, prowling back and forth between Zasha and the red-robed witches. Clearly, they were anxious to get started.

Pulling his own dagger from his hip, Zasha gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white and his fingers began to ache. This wasn’t how things were supposed to have happened, but if he was going to die anyway, he would at least die fighting.

The antagonizing smirks never faulted as twenty witches pulled gleaming gold and silver swords from their scabbards, tilting them tauntingly in the werewolves’ direction. “Tsk, tsk.” The witch standing prominently at the head of their small army clucked his tongue and stepped away from the group. “It seems someone has let the dog off his leash. Your mate really should be more careful.”

He was easily the largest man in the room, towering at least eight inches above Zasha. Beneath the flowing robe, his shoulders appeared broad and his frame bulky, creating a powerfully intimidating image. Flipping his dark hair over one shoulder, he laughed freely, clearly enjoying Kieran’s growing rage.

Twirling one hand out to the side, he manifested a glowing ball of light between his fingers, much like the one Thane had produced earlier. Then he flicked his wrist, sending the crackling orb across the room where it zipped past Zasha’s ear, headed straight toward Lynk Braddock.

Proving his earlier theory, the light didn’t penetrate the barrier, but instead, ricocheted off the walls and ceiling before finally exploding near one of the cages. The children’s fearful cries tore at his heart, but the cold laughter from the circle’s leader only fueled his determination to put an end to the man’s worthless existence.

Kieran, however, seemed to be taking a different approach to the situation. The threat to his mate had apparently short-circuited his brain, sending him into a spiral of fury. Without any signal or warning, without giving any indication that he was about to move, the werewolf launched himself at the circle’s leader with his fangs bared.

From that one act, complete chaos was born. Balls of fire, lightning, and even water whipped around the room, carelessly cast and discarded by the robed witches. Some chose to abandon the use of magic in favor of swords or daggers, slicing through the air as they charged forward with fearsome battle cries.

Yes, Zasha was scared, but when faced with his own mortality, instinct took over, becoming his most powerful ally. Ducking beneath the arm of one witch, he spun gracefully on his toes, kicking out his right leg to bring two more men to the ground. The bouncing spheres and jets of light from casted spells were harder to dodge and seemed to come with no rhyme or reason, but Zasha soon found they weren’t very accurate, either.

Kieran had never reached his intended target, having been intercepted by three smaller members of the group. He fought ferociously, swiping with his claws and gnashing his teeth, but each time he felled one witch, two more would rush to their comrades’ defense. Kieran’s brothers weren’t faring much better, and it was clear they were all tiring as they struggled to stave off the attacks.

Swords clashed together and sparks flew as Raven dueled with a redheaded witch only half his size. The tiny woman cackled and taunted, dancing out of reach before charging back in with the obvious intention of skewering Raven on the end of her blade.

Maybe she thought herself safe because she was a woman, but she’d severely overestimated the Enforcer’s compassion—as well as his longer reach. When she jeered and toddled back once more, Raven delivered a roundhouse kick to the side of her head, dropping her like a bad habit. The guy really was honorable, though. Instead of piercing her heart with his sword once she’d fallen, he simply stepped over her prone body to engage his next opponent.

Zasha lost track of everyone after that. He was too busy trying to keep his head firmly attached to his shoulders. In a fair fight, he felt confident he could hold his own. Unfortunately, there were several things not fair about this war.

He and his friends had no magic as the witch currently crushing his windpipe with an invisible hand from several feet away was quick to remind him. They were also outnumbered, something else that was made aware to him by the appearance of another witch sprinting toward him with a sword lifted over his head.

From the corner of his eye, Zasha saw a streak of red fly through the air, and he winced when he heard the crunch the woman made when she smacked against the wall. A piercing howl erupted over the cacophony of noise but quickly died away, and Zasha could only guess at which werewolf had fallen.

A single tear trickled down the side his cheek, but Zasha didn’t mourn for himself. He didn’t fear death. His sadness was for