Before Serah had time to process the demon's sudden fear of Marcus, the Pureblood crouched, coiled—then vanished in a blur. In the span of a heartbeat it was on her: claws extended, talons slicing the air inches from her throat.
But she moved.
A flare of flame surged along her limbs, feeding speed into her muscles. Her claymore rose in a single, fluid motion to meet the lethal arc; steel crashed against blood claws with a scream. Serah adjusted her grip and drove the momentum through the strike, cutting diagonally from the demon's left shoulder down to its right hip. Fire ran along the edge of the blade as it bit home.
Blood roared into the air and then spilled in a hot ribbon onto the grass. The Pureblood's eyes widened into stunned black orbs; for the first time it felt the sting of mortal injury. The wound began to knit almost at once, but the shock registered in its face: this woman—this slight, fierce woman—had torn it.
