“Which makes them practically immortal,” I murmur, and then I actually jerk with the memory of Carrick when he killed the succubus. Breaking her neck didn’t work, but the dagger he used to shove into her brain did. It must have been iron.
“Fae and daemons are certainly tricky to kill and your options are limited, but if you end up choosing this whip as your weapon, you need to know one more important thing about it.”
It takes a moment to process what he just said, so I have to clarify. “You mean I get one of these weapons to keep?”
“Carrick insists,” Titus replies as he covers the distance between us. Taking the handle, he turns it sideways and points to a rose in full bloom, just under the flared end. It’s slightly larger and raised a bit higher than the other scrollwork.
Titus holds the handle loose in his palm, then presses his thumb to the rose. It depresses and when it does, a long, dagger-like spike ejects from the end of the handle, a good eight inches in length and the same burnished silver color as the handle. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s pure iron.
Eyes gleaming, Titus holds it up for me to inspect. “The whip won’t kill, but this dagger on the end will. If you can get close enough.”
“Whoa,” I exclaim on a breathy sigh.
“You stick it here,” Titus indicates, poking the tip of his index finger against my rib cage about two inches under my breast and to my left. It tickles, and I curl inward while snorting. “Fifth intercostal space between the ribs. As you’re facing your enemy, aim just right of the breastbone, and it will slide in. It has to be precise, so it’s extremely hard to do in battle.”
Index finger still pointed, he pushes gently at my throat, just under my chin. “Drive upward here, and you’ll hit the brain. Gotta get in close to do that, too.”
“Yeah… I’ve seen Carrick employ that method,” I mutter. Titus nods knowingly as Carrick had told him about me stupidly running down a dark alley toward a succubus.
Titus depresses the rose again, and the dagger slides into its hiding spot within the handle.
“I don’t know if I have the capacity to kill anything,” I shamefully admit to Titus.
“You never know what you’re capable of until you’re faced with it.” He regards me with empathy, never forgetting how new I am to this. Carrick expects me to be wise in all my decisions, but I can’t without full information. “Your survival instincts will kick in, even if that means, for now, all you can do is run away.”
Not all that great of a reassurance. It’s easy for Titus to say as he’s been battling dark creatures for—well, I have no idea how long as he lives in a place where people don’t age, so I’m expecting it’s a long damn time.
My gaze drops to the whip he’s holding loosely by the handle. “Can I try it?”
Titus scrutinizes me hard. Finally, he holds the handle out toward me, and I take it in my hand.
I’m not enough of an imaginative dreamer to believe there would be some sort of mystical connection between the weapon and me. Still, the minute my fingers wrap around the cool metal handle, it feels right.
It feels natural.
It feels like it belongs to me.
Titus takes several steps back, more distance than he’d put between us when he was demonstrating the whip. I grin, thinking it’s probably a rather good idea to do so.
I drop my right hand, handle pointed downward, and the thong and fall rest on the floor in a snake-curved pattern.
“Timing is everything with the bullwhip,” Titus says. “Let’s try just a simple over-the-shoulder crack like you first saw me do. You’re going to raise your arm with enough force the thong will arc up over your shoulder, then start to come down with gravity on your backside. Right when the fall is close to touching the back of your lower leg, you sharply push forward with the handle, giving a slight snap. Go slowly.”
Nodding, I draw a breath in through my nose, run through the instructions in my head, and envision the way Titus looked when he did it.
Hell, I envision the way Indiana Jones looked doing it, a favorite movie of my dad’s we used to watch together.
I raise my hand—focusing on the connection I feel to the weapon. As my spirit feels the thong, I let my senses guide my movements and trust my instincts on when to whip the handle forward again.
C-r-a-c-k!
The whip catches me in the right shoulder blade rather than sailing beautifully over my body and the pain has me cursing. “Fuck, that hurt.”
And it unbelievably hurts because I rarely let out an F-bomb, which I firmly believe should only be reserved for extreme high emotion or pain—like now.