Chapter 52
FIFTY-TWO
Opposites attract. They also destroy.
CELINE
He was never interested in a fair duel.
Angels are dying because of it. I hear their screams, but it’s hard to tell exactly what’s happening while I’m fighting for my life. My heart squeezes. They might not be innocent bystanders in the most literal sense of the word, but they didn’t deserve a death sentence either.
I’ve seen enough to know that the guys aren’t hidden anymore. Surrounded by angels on all sides, they stand out like neon signs glowing in the dark.
A chill rolls down my back. They’re exposed. They could be hurt. You can’t do this on your own. I don’t want to accept it, but the reality is I need help keeping this duel contained. My reflexes are fast, but I can’t be in multiple places at once.
“So, they aren’t cowards, after all,” Father hisses and spits onto the ground. His lip is split, and the red blood staining his beard makes me smile.
“It’s too bad about your assassins.” I tilt my head toward the nearest stone figure. “Kind of embarrassing, don’t you think? You couldn’t beat me on your own. You had to pay others to handle your business.”
“Silence!” He roars the word, and it bashes into me like a brick to the face.
I chuckle, then stumble in shock. Why was my laugh so loud? My own heartbeat is as resonant as Crag’s lumbering footsteps. I swallow around the lump in my throat, and it sounds like a wave crashing against a cliff face. All my sounds are amplified internally.
It’s horribly strange, and it takes me a second to notice what’s missing: everything else.
Holy shit. He silenced everything but me.
I can’t hear my footsteps. Can’t hear the swords colliding as I parry his next strike. Every single external indicator is gone, and it’s beyond disorienting. I’m trapped in an echo chamber of my own body.
He charges again with murder in his eyes, and I raise my sword with shaky hands. Pull it together. Adapt—adapt or die. Spinning at the last second, I manage to dodge the blow, but without any sound, my movement isn’t quite right.
His boot tip collides with my calf. The knife slices through muscle and collides with bone. I scream. Magnified inside my own body, the pained sound is deafening.
My eyes blur with tears, but I can’t afford to lose another sense. He’s going to win if I can’t pull it together. The thought chills me. It’s enough to drown out the agony.
I’ve never fought without sound, but there is something familiar about the sensation .
. . I spin to dodge his next blow, and the movement triggers my memory.
When I first started working at the Fang, I didn’t know how to dance.
I practiced in my apartment constantly, headphones in place to avoid pissing off the neighbors on the other sides of the thin walls.
I couldn’t hear my movements, and I got used to it. Except you weren’t bleeding from a stab wound; you were wine drunk. Even better, things were blurry then, too. I narrow my eyes, the internal argument more visceral thanks to the warped audio.
I can do this. Fighting is nothing but a different kind of dance, right?
My father senses his advantage and presses it, not glancing once at the chaos outside the dueling square. He kicks toward my good leg, and I pivot, letting his boot collide with the metal feathers of my flaming wings.
The blade slides between two feathers and hooks. I keep spinning.
The momentum yanks him off the ground, and I scream again as the pressure rips several feathers out of my wings. It hurts. But this pain is a fraction of what Malach went through. And it’s nothing compared to Mom’s suffering.
He can have as much of my pain as he wants, because this is the last time.
He scrambles, ripping out another hunk of feathers, and the pressure on my back snaps as he falls to the ground. Now. Finish him. Stumbling on my bad leg, I swing my sword at his head. He rolls, and the blade cuts his cheek instead of his throat.
Blood gushes, soaking his beard. It’s not his only injury. My wings did major damage, slicing him in dozens of places, the deepest cuts clustered around the leg he tried to stab me with.
He’s on his back, and this is a fight to the death. I raise my sword and swing again.
His lips form the thatsha word for shield, and a ball of sludge-like magic forms above his body, catching my blade and trapping it there. It pulses angrily. The force throws me backward, and I lose my grip, hitting the ground hard as my head collides with the stone.
I blink, trying to clear the gray spots from my vision.
S’lach stumbles to his feet, chest heaving. “This is my house,” he roars, blood-stained spittle flying from his lips. “You think you’re entitled to the spine’s magic because you happened to be born? It’s mine. It’s mine because I took it.
“The thatsha were useless without me, too weak to face reality. Sure, overpopulated lower echelons aren’t an obvious problem when they’re growing food and building furniture, but what about when they get tired of that and look up? This realm is mine, Daughter, and I won’t let you take it from me.”
His eyes gleam with mania, and for once, I don’t see myself when I look at him.
I’ve known he was cruel since I was old enough to understand the meaning of the word, but this . . . this is delusion. He’s silenced his opposition for so long that he believes his own lies.
“They thought I was scum,” he snarls. “Dirt beneath their shoes. When I courted Valenara, I heard everything. The whispers, the laughter they never bothered to hide. I made them pay for it, silencing them, just as I’ll silence you.”
“This duel is over!” I jump at the sound of Gavin’s voice. He crosses the boundary into the square, white-faced, with his fists clenched at his sides. “You’ve broken the Dueling Codex, S’lach, and your assassin tried to kill my son.”
My ears are ringing, but I can hear Gavin clearly now. Our skirmish must have broken my father’s concentration. Silencing the entire courtyard would have required tremendous effort, and he’s not all-powerful, no matter what he wants others to think.
Father shouts back at Gavin. Other voices join the argument. I watch, trying to listen, but it’s hard to focus with my throbbing head. More angels approach, a mix of different echelons, including several of the staff and a handful of the thatsha he brought with him.
They circle him, drawing their weapons. The tide has turned.
Even his sycophants are switching sides.
He sneers at me, a cornered animal with an ever-tightening noose around his neck.
It’s over and he knows it. My vision blurs, but it’s with tears this time.
Maybe I won’t have to deal with him on my own. Maybe someone will finally help me.
He’s surrounded on all sides, but when he looks up, I curse. All sides but one.
Crouching, he launches himself into the air, his mottled wings flapping wildly as he gains altitude. He’s going to get away. Except he’s not trying to leave, he’s flying toward the balcony where we had breakfast yesterday. It feels like a lifetime ago.
He kicks in the door and disappears inside. I climb shakily to my feet.
“Your family magic,” Gavin says, looking at me. “He’s trying to get to it. You’ve got to stop him, Celine.”
I retrieve my sword. It’s heavier than it was an hour ago.
The balcony is so far away.
My wings tremble, and the clink of metal makes me wince. They’re bladed and heavy, so heavy I can barely keep them from dragging on the ground. I won’t be able to use the same route he took. But there’s another option.
I call for Alistair. He’s in front of me a second later, eyes ruby-red as he assesses my injuries. “Get me inside,” I beg. “I’ve got to head him off before he reaches the spine.”
Ali doesn’t hesitate, scooping me up and taking off.
Air rushes against my face, and I close my eyes as our surroundings blur. He isn’t moving as smoothly as he normally does, but there are stairs and lots of turns to navigate. I lock my jaw to avoid biting my tongue and ride it out.
When Alistair puts me down, I’m surprised to see he’s taken me to my mother’s sitting room.
The floor is still covered in dust from the wall Malach and I destroyed. Panes of plum, magenta, and burgundy stained glass cast a prism across the soulless white canvas, framing a dark, winged shadow.
S’lach has his back to us. Staring out the window, his wings are eclipsing most of the light.
“You’ve ruined everything,” he says, his voice flat and emotionless.
“Me?” My voice breaks. “What about you? Think of all the lives you’ve ruined.”
He scoffs. “I didn’t ruin your life, Celine. I made sure you were strong enough to have one. Those wings? They painted a target on your back. You had to be able to take the hits.”
“Spare me your sick justifications.” I kick a chair over, needing an outlet for my rage. It crashes into the wall to the left of the window and splinters into pieces. “I made myself strong enough to take the hits; you just made sure they never stopped coming.”
He presses his palm to a pale pink pane and traces the darker seam. “At first, I hoped you’d be my ally. We could have ruled together, you and me, but you’re too much like her. Emotional and weak, except when you’re getting in the way of my plans.”
He sighs heavily, then turns to face me.
Coated in blood and lined by time, his features are both familiar and alien.
“Surrender,” I say. “Let the thatsha determine what happens to you. They might offer you more mercy than you’ve given others.”
He throws his head back and laughs. My skin crawls.
The window colors glitch. Why is the room spinning?
“Good talk, Daughter.” His deep voice is lined with malice. “The poison needed time to spread, although I’m surprised it took this long. I coated that blade with enough toxin to fell an angel twice your size.”
I stumble. My sword clatters to the floor.
Alistair grabs my shoulders to keep me upright.
“Y-y-you,” I can’t make the words come out.
My knees buckle.