Chapter Text
"Having a pleasant time?" Hadrian jerked, whirling to face whoever had spoken.
His lip curled when he saw her. A beautiful woman. A pretty face - no more and no less. Clothed in tight leather he should have recognized, but never did. He raised his dagger, stepping toward where she stood by the treeline. "Get the hell out of here, woman." He barked. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into out here."
She tilted her head back slightly, scanning him. Her burnt-gold eyes reflected the light of the moon. He couldn't read them. And she wasn't smiling.
Manon Blackbeak, the last Crochan Queen, bearer of the mighty blade Wind-Cleaver, leader of the Thirteen - though he didn't know who she was - said nothing. Just stepped forward and slowly cocked her head toward the dagger. A challenge.
"Bitch," Hadrian snarled, and rushed forward.
A second later, his dagger was knocked from his hand, and Hadrian cried out as the side of his face was ground into the bark of a nearby tree. His eyes watered as splinters caught in his skin. His arms latched onto hers as she pressed harder, trying to yank her away, but he might as well be trying to move steel. She stared at him, watched his frustration grow when he realized she was far, far stronger than he was.
"Where is Elide." Manon said in a carefully soft voice.
"Like hell I'll tell you!" Hadrian spat, then groaned when she peeled his face from the tree, then slammed it back, even harder this time. His jaw shrieked with pain, and something jabbed into his eye.
Manon leaned close to his ear and whispered, "In your stories, witches kill because we can. And when we kill for boredom, the things we do are beautifully wicked. I do not think you wish to find out what I am capable of now that I have a personal score to settle, mortal."
"Go to hell." Hadrian grunted, shifting his body against the tree, trying to push away.
He saw her smile. No - not smile. This couldn't be a smile. Manon bared her teeth, and his legs went weak when he saw the razor-sharp iron teeth, dull in the moonlight. "Talk. While you're still capable of it."
Panting now, Hadrian was determined not to scream at the pain in his face, and the fear of this woman - this witch, whom he and his comrades had been hunting. Now she was the hunter, and he was the prey. He couldn't reach his dagger, didn't have any other weapons within quick reach of his hands.
But...she wanted to know the location of the girl with red blood but a witch's soul. Had sought him out. She wouldn't kill him unless she got what she wanted. He had to resist until his comrades found him.
"Go. To. Hell." Hadrian snarled.
Without missing a beat, Manon spun him so that he faced her, found his right hand, and tore a finger off in a smooth, powerful twist. Hadrian screamed, tears leaking from his eyes, feeling the blood gush from the severed digit.
Manon's silver-white hair, like freshly fallen snow, fell into her face as she paused, just for a moment, breathing in deep. Smelling the blood pouring from his hand. Her eyes practically glowed with a dangerous thrill.
And she still wasn't smiling.
Another sickening, crunching rip, and Hadrian screamed through clenched teeth, writhing desperately in her grip. The world heaved beneath his feet, and his skin went prickly and cold. Spots of light danced before his eyes.
"Stop." He pleaded. Manon ignored him.
Another. "Please!" Hadrian begged, kicking out at her. She shifted slightly, but didn't let him go. "PLEASE! I'll tell you where the girl is!"
Another.
Another.
His right hand was a mangled, broken stump, spurting blood onto the grass. He kept screaming. Screaming for her to stop. Screaming the location of his camp, screaming for gods that did not - could not - help him. Not now. And not against her.
Manon had gotten what she'd wanted. She could go to her Elide now, and help her tear apart anyone who had so much as laid a hand on her.
And yet Manon stayed. She watched him for a moment, watched him weep and curl in in himself, and was reminded of how weak humans were. How quickly their arrogance and unfailing sense of superiority turned to terror in the face of something like her.
Every witch-hunter was the same. They thought themselves strong and righteous until they came face to face with their quarry. And then...oh, how she delighted in watching them tremble like the pathetic worms they were.
"You deserve the most exquisite agony," she murmured, and as Hadrian's vision faded to darkness, as his head spun and everything sounded too far away, too foggy, Manon licked his blood, fear-scent and all, from her iron nails.