And this. Definitely this.
I don’t even know what this is yet, but the chittering, clattering scrape coming through the cleft in the obsidian wall isn’t random—it’s steady, deliberate. Predatory. It sets off an electric itch at the base of my spine, a zillion years of instinct screaming run. Instead, I reach for my bow. “Frack! Shite! Damn the universe to hell.”
Everyone’s gaze shifts from the cleft to me. Lenora quirks a concerned eye.
“My bow is shot,” I grouse.
Frankie rolls her eyes and points at my hip.
I stare.
She jabs again, then turns back toward the entrance, hefting the frog’s razor-toothed jawbone like Samson about to write scripture in Philistine blood.
I glance to Lenora and shake my head.
“Your whip thing,” she whispers.
“My flogger? It’s a sex toy…”
“Tell that to every Roman prisoner flogged near to death for jaywalking,” sighs Jenny.
I lift the short, thonged whip from my waist. “Flogged for jaywalking?”
“Ever driven in Rome?” Jenny deadpans.
I uncurl the thing, shake my head, and give it a soft, tentative lash.
“Not like that,” snaps Frankie. “You’re trying to break it apart, not tickle its fancy.”
“Right…” I grip the flogger closer to the tails and crack it like snapping a towel. The cords lash back—one bites across my own forearm. A sharp sting blooms, a welt rising like the world’s dumbest hickey.
“Shite,” I hiss, shaking it off, more embarrassed than hurt. “Bloody brilliant. I’m losing to my own underwear.”
“Goddess, woman,” Frankie growls, setting down her jawbone and stomping to my side. “Yer holdin’ it all wrong.” She shifts my grip further down the handle, her calloused fingers firm on mine. “Better. Now breathe like ya do with yer bow.”
I steady my breath, exhale slow, and swing in a wide arc. The flogger cracks against the stone—sparks spit from the grit, echoing sharp through the cavern. Not elegant, but definitely attention-grabbing.
“Eh.” Frankie tips her head, considering. “Timing’s off, but you’re on the right track.” She trudges back to her improvised weapon, hefts it like she was born to wield frog bones, and takes a few experimental swings that whistle through the damp air.
I stumble, nearly fall, and curse, “Damn notification window,” as golden words dance across the top of my sight:
Lenora leans in and brushes her lips across the welt on my arm, the sting fading under her healing touch. “What’s wrong?”
“I now have the system’s permission to use my flogger as a flexible weapon,” I mutter.
Everyone snickers as I grumble and take a few more practice snaps with my so-called weapon. Sparks spit off the stone. The cords hiss and snap like angry snakes.
What else can this skill cover? A whip obviously, maybe chains… ropes? My musings cut short as a sound trickles through the cleft—an alien tick-tick-tick, like crystal nails tapping glass.
The antennae appear first: golden filaments, swaying and dueling in the stale air. Light refracts off their tips in fractured rainbows, casting stuttering patches of color across the walls like a trail of warped disco balls.
Then comes the shadow. Long. Many-jointed. Too many legs moving in uncanny synchrony.
And finally—its head: flat, wedge-shaped, with twin golden eyes that catch the glow and fracture it into a hundred shards. They glitter like cut gems, beautiful… until they swivel and lock on us.
“Oh…” Jenny sighs, eyes wide. “It’s so pretty!”
Alarms clang in my skull. Yes, the sparkling head and glittering eyes had a certain charm—but I know that shine. It’s the gleam of a predator: the same electric focus I’ve seen in bears, cats, even sharks. My hand snaps to Jenny’s, holding her back. “Wait.”
“It’s stunning,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say, though my mind is already working the math—wind, range, humidity, all the factors I need to kill at distance. My fingers curl, expecting the familiar curve of my bow grip. Wrong. Too small. Too soft. My stomach lurches.
It isn’t my bow. It’s my flogger.
From twenty yards of safety to two feet of terror. My pulse can’t decide whether to race or freeze. My gaze locks on the thing’s mouth—wide enough to take me whole, lined with a forest of needles.
Jenny squeezes my hand. “Lizzy? You’re sweating an ocean. What’s wrong?”
I swallow hard, eyes still on the glittering monster. “Danger sense.”
A clattering chime snaps my focus back to the antennae. They twitch and sway, quivering toward us like tuning forks struck by some invisible hand.
Beside me, Jenny inhales sharply, then exhales in a long, almost sensual sigh. Her lips curl into a dreamy smile, eyes glazed, half-lidded like she’s basking in a lover’s touch. One bare foot slides forward as if pulled by invisible threads.
I yank her back, my fingers digging into her wrist. “Stay here! You’re our only ranged fighter.”
Her smile falters. “Fight?” The word is soft, distant—like the thing across the cavern is whispering through her mouth.
That’s when it clicks. The prickle along my spine, the churn in my gut—my hunter’s instincts are screaming louder than whatever glamour or chemical lure this monster is pouring into the air. My fear isn’t weakness—it’s armor. It’s the only thing keeping me from stepping forward the way Jenny just tried to.
I narrow my eyes on its glittering face. The jeweled orbs don’t shift, don’t track, don’t even blink. They’re fixed, like polished stones set into a mask. Pretty, yes. Deadly, no. The “eyes” aren’t watching us—they’re bait. A distraction.
The real danger is somewhere else. But where? Jenny’s dazed admiration makes sense now—Penny finds shiny things irresistible, and this thing’s glittering carapace is a trap for the curious.
I force myself to study it, to see past the shimmer. Segment after segment unfolds into the cavern, each plated in iridescent armor, a living chain of steel-blue and gold. The dainty, claw-tipped legs don’t walk—they ripple, marching in waves that make the stone floor hum.
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With one casual heave, it shoves the frog’s ruined rotting corpse aside. Then it halts. The antennae sweep the chamber, twisting like living radars. Each pauses—once on me, then Jenny, Frankie, Lenora, and finally Tess.
The way it lingers there twists my stomach. This isn’t the leer of a lustful man. It’s colder. Methodical. The patient assessment of a hunter choosing which lamb in the herd to break first.
“Tess!” My voice rips out. “It’s going for Tess!”
Jenny blinks, her dreamy smile faltering. “What?”
Frankie shifts up beside me, his grip white-knuckled on the jawbone. His eyes never leave the creature. “Makes sense,” he growls. “Weakest in the herd.”
Lenora curses under her breath and bolts toward Tess’s side.
“My queen,” Frankie snaps, not even looking back, “stand between them and Tess. Prepare an offensive dance.”
Jenny spins, royal indignation sparking through her daze. “I am Jenny! Not your Queen!”
“Yes, my Lady,” Frankie replies evenly, “now move.”
Jenny growls but obeys, striding to her post.
“Stay one step behind and to my left,” Frankie continues, his voice clipped, commander-sharp. “Tickle the beastie, distract it, and for the love of Albion—stay out of my way.”
We stalk forward. Slow. Downwind. Silent—hunters closing on a prey even a rhinoceros would flee.
I’m calm, too calm. My flogger coils loose in my off hand, ready but laughably short for what we’re facing. Each step shrinks yards into feet. The floral perfume Jenny swooned over curdles into something foul—sweet rot laced with iron, like blossoms laid too long on a grave. Its breath wafts across us, a midden heap of decay.
Frankie strikes first.
Clunk!
Sparks spray. Frog teeth—lodged in the jawbone—shatter loose. His makeshift club skitters off the glittering “eye.”
“It’s a fake!” I shout, instincts snapping ahead of thought. I snap my flogger at the thing’s antennae. The lash falls short, a useless flail—except it makes the beast flinch. Its jeweled head jerks, antennae twitching like startled snakes.
Frankie sees it too. He pivots, jawbone whistling in a deadly arc. The centipede twists, quicker than it has any right to be. I yelp and flatten into a plank, the gust of Frankie’s swing brushing inches above my head. The club completes its wild circle—clang!—slamming into a blue armor plate. It screeches down the shell, then hacks clean through one clawed leg.
The beast shrieks, a metallic scrape braided with a wet hiss, and the whole cavern vibrates with fury. A spray of shimmering blue mist geysers between two plates, and the air fills with the perfume of a meadow in spring—sweet, wonderful, intoxicating.
Frankie sidesteps.
Me? I freeze, nailed in place by childhood memories: running through wildflowers, chasing butterflies, my father’s voice calling me back before the fae could steal me away. For a heartbeat I’m eight again, barefoot, careless.
Then heat lances my skin, dragging me back to now. I dodge, late, and the mist lashes me with hidden tendrils—dark purple, barbed like fishhooks, snapping for every bare patch of flesh.
I yelp, bracing for pain, certain my next stop will be that ugly maw—but then my Corset of Compelled Charisma erupts. Fabric lashes free in a dozen directions, abandoning every shred of modesty to shield what matters most. For ten mortifying heartbeats, everything that should be covered isn’t. My pretty bits glow in the cavern’s false light while strips of enchanted cloth whirl and snap like a swarm of ninja blades, batting away every barb. Embarrassment and awe wrestle in my chest. I’m saved—by my ridiculous, self-cleaning, self-willed lingerie. Saved, and scrubbed spotless of the intoxicating mist before the corset slinks smugly back into place.
My eyes dart sideways—Frankie. For a split-second, her gaze snags on me. Her mouth twitches, somewhere between a grin and a quip I’ll never live down… and then she looks away, jawbone raised high, pretending she saw nothing. No joke. No wink. Just silent mercy.
That kindness cuts deeper than any barb.
My face burns hotter than any fire, but instinct smothers the shame. The flush fades into focus. Hunter’s focus. My eyes track the beast—where it moves, where it falters, where its armor thins. Weakness hides in plain sight. The centipede’s underbelly gleams raw and vulnerable, a seam of red between the plates. My breath steadies, the world narrowing to that target. The mortification still thrums under my skin, but I shove it down, twist it into fuel. I’m not prey. I’m not a joke. I’m the hunter.
My eyes lock on a seam of thin plating along its underside, barely more than raw red skin. I roll under the sweep of scythe-tipped legs, swat one aside with my flogger—then gasp as the cords loop tight around it. I yank.
Pop!
The leg snaps free like a crab claw at dinner. It whizzes past my cheek and smacks Frankie square on the hip.
“Hey! Watch it, lass!”
“My bad!” I untangle the twitching limb and gag. “Got any lemon?”
Frankie barks a laugh, swinging his jawbone club. A half-dozen legs clatter across the stone. “Baked or boiled?”
“Not sure,” I grunt, flicking my flogger again. The tails bite another joint—pop!—and a leg tears loose. “Yes!”
The beast doesn’t even flinch.
“Duck!” Frankie bellows.
I throw myself flat.
Whoosh!
Her jawbone scythes through the air, ripping eight more legs free. Three hang impaled in the club’s teeth, dripping ichor as the rest scatter across the floor like grisly kindling.
The centipede lets out a shriek—a sound halfway between shattering glass and brakes worn to metal. The cavern rattles with the vibration.
I glance over—Frankie is swearing at her weapon, plucking off stuck legs like bits of gum.
“Tiddlywinks in a chamber pot!” I hiss, springing upright. My flogger coils, ready. “Frankie—the fracking thing is climbing the wall!”
“Tiddly-what?”
“It’s getting away!”
“Not blind!”
“Do something!”
“Busy!”
“What?”
“Your turn.”
“I don’t have a bow!”
“Whip.”
“Too short!”
“Make it longer.”
“With what?”
“Gift.”
“I make electric arrows.”
“You make electric projectiles!”
“You’re kidding—”
“It’s getting away.”
“How?”
“No clue. I’m the brute, remember?”
My jaw drops as the beast surges upward. The glittering plates ripple like a living staircase, claws clattering against stone, leaving gouges and sparks in its wake. Antennae sweep wide, tasting the air, as if it already knows where Tess lies.
I stare at the tail as it slithers through the cleft, segment after segment vanishing into the dark above.
I snap the flogger once—
Zap!
The spark crawls back into my hand and bites. My arm jerks, hair flares like I’m pressed to a Van de Graaff.
“Lizzy!” Jenny gasps, half laughing.
Frankie swears. “Bloody woman, ye’ll fry yer own bones before ye singe the beast!”
I grit my teeth and try again—this time willing my magic into the leather tails the same way I notch an arrow. Force it. Shove the charge down. The flogger jerks, sputters, then spits the energy back at me in a crackling backlash that numbs my fingers.
“Frack!” I hiss. I can feel it—it hates this. My magic isn’t a bow, and the flogger isn’t a quiver. I’m trying to make it something it’s not.
I close my eyes, steady my breath, and let go. Not force, not arrows. Just… flow. I imagine the whip as an extension of the current, not a container.
Snap.
The tails crack, blue light dances along them like ribbons of storm. For the first time, it feels right.
The fight drags on—minutes, hours, I can’t tell. Lightning and water flash. Steel, bone, and chitin clash in a chaos of noise and motion. Every strike earns another scream from the beast, another bruise for us. Its hide is too thick, its reach too long. The air burns with ozone and the stink of scorched shell.
Frankie’s jawbone smashes plate after plate, each blow splintering the stone floor beneath her. Jenny twirls through sprays of water, a whirling prism of light and motion, keeping the creature off balance. Lenora darts between us like a medic in a warzone, potions flashing in her hands, sealing wounds before they can bleed.
The centipede surges, slamming into the walls and ceiling—a mountain of glittering armor and rage. Dust rains down in choking clouds. We fight in flashes—sound, sweat, panic—until my thoughts blur to one simple truth: we’re still alive, and somehow that means we’re winning.
Every few minutes, another glowing notification flickers at the edge of my vision, proclaiming a new level in Whips and Floggers. Level eight. Nine. Ten. I swipe them away with growing irritation. “Fracking AI,” I snarl between swings. “Just save them up and tell me at the end!”
Jenny gasps again, but this time not at me. She spins, glittering like a living jewel. Her gown sprays rainbow droplets. The waterfall bends with her dance, threads of water stretching, shimmering, then gathering.
She glows like a mermaid who stole Poseidon’s trident.
“Jenny,” I shout. “Drench it. Now.”
Frankie’s face goes pale. “Do not you dare. She will kill us all.”
Jenny only laughs, bright and glittering, and spins faster. The waterfall roars sideways, a torrent slamming into the monster clinging to the ceiling. Silver water sheets over its body.
I snap the flogger. Nothing. Snap again. Fizzle. The beast clings tighter, chittering through the deluge.
“Come on, Bluebell,” I whisper. My leprechaun charm flickers wildly.
I drag everything—every volt, every scrap of will—into the flogger. My chest burns. My skull rings.
Snap.
Lightning lashes out, riding the waterfall in a single perfect arc. Thunder cracks like the sky has been torn open underground. The centipede convulses, hissing and screeching as blue-white current rips along its armored length.
The whip jolts out of my hand. My knees buckle. It’s not a shock, not a burn—this is every muscle in my body tearing at once. Like I sprinted a marathon, then got hit by a bus for dessert. My Core spasms. My lungs can’t find air.
I fold forward on my hands and knees, trembling so hard my teeth chatter. Painkillers. Gods, give me something. Or just let Frankie club me unconscious and be done with it.
Across the pool, Jenny has already fallen, sprawled on the wet stone in her glittering skirts like a drowned star. Her hair streams out in rainbow coils. She isn’t moving, but her chest rises and falls—she’s alive.
The centipede crashes to the cavern floor in a spray of water and steam. It twitches once, twice, and hisses.
Frankie roars, her body swelling like a storm given flesh. Muscles balloon, ripping her shirt into rags. The sound that tears from her throat is not human. It is a banshee scream. A primal war cry.
She charges, jawbone raised, stomps pounding like war drums.
The first swing lands. Crack. A plate caves like wet clay. The second blow shatters a golden “eye” into glitter.
The third caves the mandibles, splintering them into shards.
“Stay dead, you bastard.”
Through the fog of pain, I watch her fight. Towering. Relentless. A force older than fear. A warrior carved from myth and fury.
My last thought, drifting into darkness, is not fear.
It is awe.
And, floating stupidly beneath it: how in all the fractured hells am I supposed to make a shirt big enough for her now?