The ogress moved to block the blow, just as I knew she would. At the very last moment, I drove the blade into her left eye. Unfortunately, doing so meant I was within striking distance of her talons. I felt a sharp pain, then saw the end of my nose fly across the room in a spray of brackish blood, but I did not dare let go of the switchblade. However, I did twist the knife all the way around in the socket.
The ogress shrieked like a wounded panther as she pushed me away. She staggered drunkenly towards the crib, the switchblade still jutting from her eye, blood pouring from her nose and ears. Ogres are not fatally allergic to silver the way vampires and vargr are, but a knife in the brain is a bad thing, no matter what species you are. Fiona's legs buckled on her third step and she grabbed the crib to try and keep from falling, smearing gore across the headboard. She gargled something in the language of her kind—doubtless a curse on my head— and collapsed, face-first, onto the floor, the switchblade punching its way through the back of her skull like an ice pick going through a ripe cantaloupe. I nudged her in the ribs with my boot, then flipped her over in order to retrieve my blade, wiping it clean on my jacket sleeve.
As I stood up, I touched the tip of my nose or, rather, where the tip of my nose used to be.
My fingers came away sticky with the thick, blackish-red ichor that passes for my blood. It would take a day's rest to reconstruct the damage, nothing more. I'd have to spend the rest of the night walking around looking like Michael Jackson, but it was far preferable to trying to get across town while holding my intestines in place with a borrowed dinner plate.
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) Now that Fiona and Garth were taken care of, the last thing on my "to do" list for the night was the whelp. I leaned over the crib, knife at ready, but all I found was a tangle of bedclothes and a teddy bear with its ears chewed off.
"Don't hurt my brother."
Tiffany was standing in the farthest corner of the room, clutching a squirming bundle to her thin chest. I have to admit I was surprised she was still alive. A bruise was already spreading its dark bloom across her cheek and her lower lip was swollen to twice its normal size, but otherwise she looked okay.
Realizing what I must look like, I tried my best not to frighten her, but I had to get the whelp away from her.
"Tiffany...honey. Give me the whelp."
Tiffany tightened her grip on the whelp and drew away, even though she knew she had no hope of escaping. "I won't let you hurt Cully."
"Tiffany...He's not your brother. Fiona tricked your father into thinking the whelp was his so he would help feed and care for it. Once it was old enough to walk and talk, Fiona was going to feed you to it. It's an ogre...a monster. ..just like Fiona and Garth."
Tiffany shook her head, tears building in her eyes. "But he's just a baby! See—?" She flipped back the blanket, exposing the whelp's face.
To my surprise, it was actually cute, the same way baby rhinos and gorillas are "cute." It looked human enough to fool the casual observer, although the width of its jaw and the shape of its skull and brow were unusual. The fact it already had teeth at the age of three months was something of a giveaway, too.
"You love your cissy, don't you, Cully?" Tiffany cooed.
The whelp smiled broadly and reached out with a pudgy hand capped with tiny, pointed fingernails, and squeezed Tiffany's nose, giggling with babyish glee.
"See? He loves me!"
The ogre whelp bared its milk fangs and hissed like a startled kitten, clawing the air in my direction.
"Yes. I see." I replied, stepping forward.
"No!" Tiffany wailed, pulling her precious bundle tight to her chest. "Who says he has to be like them?"
"He's an ogre, Tiffany. That's just how ogres are."
"But what if I teach him to be a good monster?"
I shook my head, marveling over
The ogress shrieked like a wounded panther as she pushed me away. She staggered drunkenly towards the crib, the switchblade still jutting from her eye, blood pouring from her nose and ears. Ogres are not fatally allergic to silver the way vampires and vargr are, but a knife in the brain is a bad thing, no matter what species you are. Fiona's legs buckled on her third step and she grabbed the crib to try and keep from falling, smearing gore across the headboard. She gargled something in the language of her kind—doubtless a curse on my head— and collapsed, face-first, onto the floor, the switchblade punching its way through the back of her skull like an ice pick going through a ripe cantaloupe. I nudged her in the ribs with my boot, then flipped her over in order to retrieve my blade, wiping it clean on my jacket sleeve.
As I stood up, I touched the tip of my nose or, rather, where the tip of my nose used to be.
My fingers came away sticky with the thick, blackish-red ichor that passes for my blood. It would take a day's rest to reconstruct the damage, nothing more. I'd have to spend the rest of the night walking around looking like Michael Jackson, but it was far preferable to trying to get across town while holding my intestines in place with a borrowed dinner plate.
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) Now that Fiona and Garth were taken care of, the last thing on my "to do" list for the night was the whelp. I leaned over the crib, knife at ready, but all I found was a tangle of bedclothes and a teddy bear with its ears chewed off.
"Don't hurt my brother."
Tiffany was standing in the farthest corner of the room, clutching a squirming bundle to her thin chest. I have to admit I was surprised she was still alive. A bruise was already spreading its dark bloom across her cheek and her lower lip was swollen to twice its normal size, but otherwise she looked okay.
Realizing what I must look like, I tried my best not to frighten her, but I had to get the whelp away from her.
"Tiffany...honey. Give me the whelp."
Tiffany tightened her grip on the whelp and drew away, even though she knew she had no hope of escaping. "I won't let you hurt Cully."
"Tiffany...He's not your brother. Fiona tricked your father into thinking the whelp was his so he would help feed and care for it. Once it was old enough to walk and talk, Fiona was going to feed you to it. It's an ogre...a monster. ..just like Fiona and Garth."
Tiffany shook her head, tears building in her eyes. "But he's just a baby! See—?" She flipped back the blanket, exposing the whelp's face.
To my surprise, it was actually cute, the same way baby rhinos and gorillas are "cute." It looked human enough to fool the casual observer, although the width of its jaw and the shape of its skull and brow were unusual. The fact it already had teeth at the age of three months was something of a giveaway, too.
"You love your cissy, don't you, Cully?" Tiffany cooed.
The whelp smiled broadly and reached out with a pudgy hand capped with tiny, pointed fingernails, and squeezed Tiffany's nose, giggling with babyish glee.
"See? He loves me!"
The ogre whelp bared its milk fangs and hissed like a startled kitten, clawing the air in my direction.
"Yes. I see." I replied, stepping forward.
"No!" Tiffany wailed, pulling her precious bundle tight to her chest. "Who says he has to be like them?"
"He's an ogre, Tiffany. That's just how ogres are."
"But what if I teach him to be a good monster?"
I shook my head, marveling over
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