The Blood Crown (The Blood Folk #2)

67. Chapter 67

Chapter 67

T he demon prince looked down at Asher with what might have been contempt or dispassion—it was difficult to tell in the depths of his wholly black eyes.

There was nothing monstrous about this one, nothing sinister about his mildly handsome features. And yet there was no mistaking the male for what he was.

Asher gripped his prize tighter, not caring as blood trickled down his hand onto his wrist as the blade bit into his skin.

Demons flanked the prince on either side. The ones that looked like maybe in another life they’d been something other than these creatures.

The prince raised a hand, stilling them with a single unspoken command, and Asher wondered if it was for show. The male could probably control them with a mere thought if he so wished.

He reached out a hand, flawless and smooth, offering Asher a choice.

But there had never been a choice.

Asher had known he would die this day—and he would die with purpose.

He raised the black blade in his hand—the look on the prince’s face unmistakable this time as his lips thinned into a line.

The demons behind him crawled forward.

The corridor behind him was open—but if he ran, he’d only draw those things further into the palace toward the women and children seeking shelter here.

And so he held his ground, even as the dark creatures shambled forward and closed in.

Darkness exploded around him, snuffing out the torches along the walls and plunging the corridor into pitch black as the floor beneath them shuddered with the mighty impact.

Asher slashed blindly with his dagger, clutching the scythe to his chest and coughing as sulfur burned along his throat, his nostrils.

His vision came back to him in mottled gray as the cloud of ash dispersed. Only two figures remaining in the confined space of the corridor—

The demon prince.

And a Wraith.

Strands of Seth’s raven hair had come loose from the knot at the top of his head, grime streaked across his face as he fought the prince, his movements beautiful and deadly.

Asher had trained with the Wraiths long enough to know that where Karro was a crash of heavy steel, Seth was the wickedly sharp blade in answer. The graceful current of a swift river ready to pull you under.

Asher ran toward the two males, lunging for the prince as Seth’s blade slashed. A relentless attack.

Seth’s sword gleamed with black blood, but the prince had no visible weapons at all.

His eyes were cold with rage, mouth curved into a cruel slash as he clutched a raised fist.

Seth was lifted off his feet by the prince’s dark magick, legs dangling in the air as he struggled for breath.

Using the distraction, Asher slid across the floor, raising his dagger and plunging it into the demon prince’s exposed side. The blade rasped along his ribs, the prince grunting with irritation as he released Seth and threw him to the ground.

Seth rolled back on his feet, circling the prince again, his breath labored as the prince turned his black eyes toward Asher.

The demon gritted his teeth in annoyance as he pulled the blade free, tossing it to the stone floor with a clatter, then advanced on him.

His shadow swallowed him, seeming to grow impossibly taller as he stepped forward.

Asher gripped the scythe, boots crushing the chips of stone beneath them.

A whirlwind of shadow broke the space.

Seth emerged from the night-colored wisps, pressing a coin to the demon’s forehead.

The prince let out a sound that no mere man could make—the noise ripping through Asher’s skull as the demon’s skin smoldered and charred beneath the metal, until he burst into green flames.

Seth's hand wrapped around his arm, shadows swirling like a raging tempest, plunging them into weightlessness.

Asher was thrown to the ground as they appeared in front of the black fortress carved into the mountains.

It would take him awhile longer to get used to casting . . .

He looked down to the relic still clutched against his chest, a small wave of relief washing over him.

They’d get the scythe within the safety of Ravenstone’s walls, and then they could go back to the battle.

He turned, looking to where Seth stood beside him—the Wraith unusually still as he gazed up at Ravenstone's black gates.

“Seth—” he murmured, trying to shake him from his daze.

It was only then that his eyes drifted lower . . . to where the Wraith had his hand pressed to his ribs.

Seth pulled it away, red coating his palm as his ruby eyes flicked up to Asher, something like an apology knitting his dark brows together.

He fell to his knees, lips parted in whispered words too low for Asher to understand, peace smoothing the lines of pain that had been etched into his face.