Chapter Twenty-One #3
For a second, Antonio couldn’t feel the constant drum of anxiety.
Couldn’t see the crowd or hear the voices.
There was only Declan, who never assumed, even when Antonio wouldn’t have minded.
Fucking Murderpunk, who’d promised him lifetimes.
Who would die if he had to, for people who’d never thank him for it.
Antonio loved him more than he’d thought he was capable of. Loved him more than all his anger. All his fear. And maybe he wasn’t the sort to fight or kill for someone. But he’d sure as hell set himself alight just so Declan could warm his hands.
“Don’t need any persuading, Murderpunk,” he said, while Hyacinth smirked. “I go where you are.”
“Thank you, mo chuisle,” Declan said quietly, pressing close. “I think you might enjoy hearing just how thick the accent gets after a night or two in Belfast.”
Yeah. Probably he’d more than enjoy that.
Now wasn’t the time. Now was Hyacinth and his friends watching and only Tsuri looking anything like concerned. Fae liked their deals nice and clear because they were all slippery bastards.
“You see to it Nimai doesn’t play dirty, and I go with you and Declan to this pub.”
“Then we’re settled.” Hyacinth made it sound like the final flourish of a signature on a binding contract.
Good thing Antonio’d already sold his soul.
“We’re settled,” Declan agreed.
“Lucky I showed up.” Hyacinth turned to the other sidhe with a grin. “We don’t do nearly enough as a family.”
Kesk looked like the only family activity he was interested in was fratricide.
“Very well.” Nimai stepped forward, no longer wearing his stockbroker smile. “How like you, Declan, to turn your own death into a spectacle. Let’s get this over with.”
“The rules first, I think,” Veroni said. “Lest the less civilized get carried away.”
Of course. They were fae, after all. It could never be as simple as taking a swing. Instead, they argued.
It all came down in Nimai’s favor.
No spitting acid. No rot. No sluagh teeth.
No damaging the house.
There were rules for Antonio and Kylan, too. They had to stay outside the boundary. They couldn’t injure Nimai or Declan. Kylan was a battery. Antonio wasn’t even that. He should’ve brought fucking pompoms.
Then Declan and Nimai stepped into the marked area, and the edge of the space sprouted a riot of silver blades, knee high and gleaming. All Antonio could do was watch, as Declan studied Nimai, hate in the look and in the bond, but a smile on his lips.
“You know what I could never figure out?” Declan asked, loud now, and deep enough to set the swords shivering. “Why Everil didn’t experiment a bit. See if ‘I’ll shed no blood’ meant ‘I can drown the ruddy disappointment of a brownie’.”
Nimai sneered. “What you fail to understand about Everil is that he wanted to be kept on a tight rein. He knew the danger of his baser instincts. You, sadly, have never recognized the need.”
Declan didn’t answer with words. Dark tendrils manifested around Nimai, oil slick, viscous, and reaching for his skin. Nimai responded with glass, a shell that kept Declan’s magic at bay.
Antonio knew how to handle a fistfight. How to understand one. This was different.
Declan’s magic was brutal and relentless, but Nimai’s was crystalline and almost invisible, closing in like walls. When the tendrils shattered the barrier, those splinters became knives aimed at Declan. Razor-edged glitter. They fell before they hit, caught in ink and carried downward, but barely.
Glass and shadow. Knives and poison. Slowly, Nimai began to falter, shirt torn and blood dripping down his chest.
Declan could do this. And now, it didn’t matter that this meant killing a man. Because it was either that or die.
Daring a glance sideways, Anonio saw Veroni’s gray hand resting on Kylan’s red skin, saw her smirk as she walked away.
“What was that about?” he asked Talia.
“Just Kylan bragging about Nimai,” she answered, her gaze not leaving the magical duel.
But it’d been more than that. Antonio was sure of it. Kylan no longer fixated on Nimai’s side of the ring. He watched Declan. In the bond, mingled with smoke and lilac, Antonio tasted mint.
Mint?
Declan felt like a lot of things. A cozy bonfire and a forest burning. Petals in bloom and fading. Ink dropped into water and on the edge of a needle.
But he wasn’t mint.
Mint and crisp, cool air, like a gust of wind, chasing the smoke away.
The air around Declan filled with slivers of glass, driving in, and though they fell away as they had before, they didn’t all fall away. Declan staggered, bleeding from a hundred tiny cuts.
Smoke caught by the wind. Drawn away, leaving only the taste of mint. Antonio could feel it. A lessening of the sense of Declan’s soul at his center. Like Declan himself was draining away.
Something was very, very wrong. Because the wind wasn’t pulling the smoke toward Nimai. It was pulling it toward Kylan.
“What the fuck?” he snarled, turning toward the qilin. And Kylan was more powerful, was fae, but Antonio really didn’t care. Declan was fading. “What are you doing?”
“I am playing by the rules, Hollow. Causing no injury.” Kylan kept his eyes on the dueling ring, fingers twitching, like he was clawing the air. “Run along and sulk elsewhere. I’ve no time for your pouting.”
A flash of light. A wave of darkness. More glass shards, driving toward Declan’s throat. The bruised beauty of his magic, rising to deflect them. Declan’s wings, his wings, were bound by thin crystalline chains, wrapped over bone and tightening.
Shit, shit, shit.
No smoke. No lilacs. Just overwhelming mint.
“You’re done playing.” Antonio snapped. Like hell was he going to let the bastard drain Declan dry while he was fighting for his life. “There’s no rule that says I can’t break your fucking fingers. So back the fuck off.”
“Antonio,” Kylan said, all gentle, condescending reason. “The sluagh isn't worth the effort it'd take you to try. He does the realm more good as a corpse. A corpse that won't spread a twisted tale about my bond. Save your own energy and walk away.”
Declan stumbled. Kylan smiled.
A fae, a fucking fae, and how was Antonio supposed to do anything? Call Talia? No. She wasn’t allowed to hurt anyone. Hyacinth? Antonio didn’t trust him. And there was no time.
There was only him. He had to try.
It’d been a while since Antonio’d thrown a punch. Some things, you didn’t forget. Like the crunch of bone on bone. The sting of his knuckles. Easy. He’d always hated how easy it was, hurting someone.
Kylan hissed. Turned toward him. Blood on his lips.
“You brought this on yourself, child. I didn’t seek to harm you.”
Antonio braced for the crash of magic against him. Heat, and a flare of mint. Scattering like dandelion seeds when it touched him. Hollow, and Kylan’s outburst was nothing like the forceful intent of the kelpie’s curse.
He grabbed Kylan’s wrist. Almost as thin as Declan’s. The man jerked back. A shower of sparks. Flame against his palm. Magic fires still burned.
His grip loosened. Just a little.
Too much.
Kylan fell backward.
Toward the fight. Onto the ring of silver blades. So many edges. So sharp and ready.
“Have you ever shivved anyone?”
Red skin and red blood. So much of it.
Kylan’s eyes. Wide with shock. Dull in death.
He didn’t even scream.
But someone did. Screamed. And screamed. And screamed.