Not a thought I’ve ever had before, but with Catalina’s goons closing in, I’m seriously regretting leaving our family blanket. Warm, safe, cuddly. Not here.
I crouch behind what I think is a rock—could be a gutted vending machine for all I know—and try to make myself smaller than a rabbit with stage fright. Nowhere to run. No cover worth a damn. And surrender is not an option—not with chains, stripped clothes, and a whip waiting on the other side.
Flight’s out.
Surrender’s out.
That leaves fight.
I pluck my bowstring. It vibrates through me—a low, electric chord humming straight into bone. My eyes may be dead, but the rest of me is alive and furious. Hearing, scent, electroception—my upgraded Arcbolt Gift paints a ghost-map in a sphere around me.
Every green blob in that bubble is a threat.
And I know exactly where they stand.
A wicked idea slinks in.
I grin.
I feed a thread of energy into my bellybutton charms. Yes, the gemstone might glow. Yes, the leprechaun might do a jig. But I’m not here for them.
I’m here for the perfume bottle.
A puff of scent whispers into the air—and the valley floods with the pervasive stench of male deer urine.
“What is that?!”
“Did she piss herself?”
“Holy—”
“Gods almighty!”
“Whoa!”
It takes every shred of restraint not to snicker.
They’re not hunters. Any real hunter would know that isn’t human pee.
Their disgust tells me three things:
- They are, in fact, people.
- They’re idiots.
- They made the rookie mistake no true predator ever would—
They stopped to complain.
Perfect.
I whisper to myself, “Time for a lesson.”
Target One drops with a single bolt—quiet, surgical.
Two more Arcbolts silence her chatty neighbors.
Then I kill the charm and move.
The matrix ripples around me—branch, stone, shrub, spider, snake—each detail brushing my skin in ghost-light as I slide through the terrain. This is hunting. Not with eyes, but with everything else.
Samantha Jones’s voice rasps somewhere ahead. I stretch my range—carefully—until a flicker of yellow-green trembles on the edge of my awareness.
Her.
A faint hum prickles behind my ears—static, ignorable.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
I stalk forward. Ten hexes. Eight. Six. Ozone thickens the air. I raise my bow, conjure a bolt, breathe—
CRACK.
“AAAAARGH! YOU—YOU BITCH!”
Not where I aimed.
Frack.
Now she’s a wounded animal. I hate leaving anything to suffer. Mercy means finishing it clean.
I advance.
Samantha’s screams echo across the valley—raw, ragged. I could slip away while she howls, but guilt roots me in place. The bolt is still lodged in her arm—still drawing power from me.
I release it.
Energy tears out of me—my perception staggers, whites out—
BOOM!
Pressure slams my chest, rattling teeth and skull. The world rings like a bell.
“What happened?!”
“My arm! That bitch blew up my arm!”
…How did I do that?
A heavy weight settles on my skull—like a twenty-pound helmet pressing down. My world-map lags. Lines bend like heat haze. A full heartbeat passes between input and update.
I stop forming the next bolt and press trembling fingers to my temples.
Why can I taste electricity?
I crouch, checking my path by touch. A branch shifts under my hand—but only pops into place on my internal map a second later.
This is real.
This is bad.
Frustration knots my throat. If the lag gets worse, I’ll die here and respawn as a cranky toddler complaining about network latency.
A branch snaps left—too close for a bow.
Bow stowed.
Right hand grabs my flogger.
It uncoils like a living serpent—six golden heads rising, bodies braided from static, each fang dripping digital venom.
BANG!
My corset tightens instantly—silk, satin, enchantments snapping like a shield. The air blooms with copper, cedar, myrrh, and ozone—Inanna’s perfume in battle mode. The bullet curves away with a fizz.
“What the hell?!” a woman yelps. “Did your bra just catch my bullet?!”
I grin. “You wish.”
Then I strike.
Four heads lash out—latched, drained, dropped. Another whip—another collapse. Targets vanish in hisses of pixelated smoke. Breath heaves.
The flogger drinks straight from my Arcbolt Gift, and nausea swirls low in my gut. My internal grid pulses irregularly, melting and reforming like oil in a lava lamp.
Oh gods. No. No, no, no—
A chill skates through my fur.
Then—
Eight bells.
Warped. Wet. Wrong.
I spin, catch the shimmer of an emerald ghost, lash—she flares, dissolves.
Eight bells again.
Like a barbarian pixie beating Notre Dame’s cathedral bells with a mace.
My head splits open with pain.
I lash blind—strike a green unicorn that bursts like fireworks.
Neurons burn.
Leprechauns pound adding-machine keys in my skull, waving sheets of debt and interest.
I collapse, the matrix bleeding out of me—green and gold fading into black.
Eight bells.
Eight…
Faint voices pierce the static.
Solenne.
Lenora.
My wives.
My family.
Music thumps through the air, warped but unmistakable.
“Come on, Lizzy—ta-la-la-la—!”
Of course. My lunatics rewrote Dexys Midnight Runners into a battle hymn.
Pounding feet.
Gunshots.
Shouts.
Crashes.
Cackling.
Solenne shrieks, gleefully off-key. Lenora’s spellfire crackles between bursts of laughter. Frankie’s tweety-bird soprano belts the next line:
“These idiots are resigned to what their fate is—!”
I laugh—half-sob, half-hysteria.
My corset and panties surge to life—Medusa’s lingerie—deflecting bullets in sprays of sparkling perfume. Bugs fry. Sparks dance. The divine fabric purrs.
My family needs me.
I try to rise—my body refuses. Signals dissolve before reaching my limbs. I slump, helpless.
A voice calls out—Irish lilt thick with adrenaline:
“Come on, Lizzy—ah, we’ll carry ye… home again!”
Muted gold flares at the edge of my sense—fast. Something slams into my groin—OW GODS—and collapses across me in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
“Lizzy?! Is that you? What’re ye wearin’, love—gods above and below, you’re furry!”
I manage a weak giggle—part relief, part delirium—as the world dims.
A pixy pops onto my chest. “You Lizzy Loren?”
I blink.
“Good. Message from me boss. Listen close.”
A window scrolls through my mind as he reads:
"Notice of Overdrawn Account
From: Office of Maddox, Comptroller to Inanna
To: Elizabeth Loren (Account BL-042)
Debits Recorded:
- Arcbolt Overdrawn: 187% of safe limit
- Neural Feedback: electroceptive cortex forced into failsafe
- Unauthorized Collateral: micro–life-force draw accepted
Repossession / Throttle:
- Arcbolt → idle
- Electroception → temporarily repossessed
- Conductive Flogger → nonlethal mode
Minimum Payment Plan:
- 12 consecutive hours of rest
(Pixy snickers: “Cuddles count double.”)
- Fluids + salts
- Two meals with actual vegetables
- One sincere prayer or equivalent gratitude act
Recovery:
- 72 hours if compliant
- 96+ hours if stubborn
Warning:
Further overdraw = compounding cooldowns + possible permanent cap.
Stamp: PAID IN TEARS (partial). Balance due."
“Right,” the pixy mutters, sinking into my chest fur. “Bloody hell, woman—buy a razor.”
He vanishes in a peppermint pop.
Darkness closes over me.