Chapter 17
Logan
My boot finds the chest of a hooded fanatic, the impact reverberating up through my leg as ribs crack beneath the force.
The fanatic’s ribs. At least I hope it’s his, because my own scream will hellfire too.
That little matters though. So long as I can protect Rowan’s retreat, I don’t give two fucks how much it hurts to move.
Because you are a prideful idiot, Nyx snarls in my mind, his mental voice dripping with fury.
A little busy, I send back, trying to raise my shields against the draken’s opinionated narrative.
Nyx won’t let me do it though. He’s pissed as hell I’d shut him out when I’d been first taken—and no amount of explaining that Viera’s people had an auric steel crossbow they fully intended to shoot Nyx with is appeasing him.
The fanatic I’d just kicked staggers backward, his ceremonial robes billowing like dark wings before he crashes into the base of a pine tree, and fortunately stays down. For now.
I take a lungful of air, the sharp scent of resin mingling with the acrid smoke from Viera's damn flames, and survey the battlescape. Prince Theron’s sentries are keeping some of the hooded bastards occupied, but I’m not about to trust them to guard Rowan’s back.
I temp down the storm of bubbling guilt and rage before it can explode and blind me, focusing myself on one goal: none of Viera’s cabal is getting past me to Rowan. Not again.
I could have torn through every one of those hooded cowards hours ago.
There was a crossbow with auric steel bolts in play, you oversized lizard.
I pivot on my heel, ducking low as a curved blade whistles through the air where my head had been moments before.
With the male momentarily off balance, I lower my level and surge forward, driving my shoulder into my attacker's midsection.
We go down hard, rolling across the forest floor littered with pine needles and scattered embers before regaining our feet and fighting stances. You are of little use paralyzed.
Nyx floods my mind with acrid discontent.
I’d try to feign contrition if I thought I’d get the lie past Nix and shut him up for a bit, but it’s never worked yet and I’m stretched too thin for experimentation.
Truth is, it was a shitty situation all around.
Kai and Kyrian were flying with a patrol of draken riders to give the riot a lay of the land.
With the Commandant close by and us having her daughter—or, more to the point, her alchemist—there was every chance of an attack. They had to go.
Once they left, the wolves showed up for me. Little surprise there. I’m a stray omega—to be shunned on the best of days, and pounded on for amusement and advancement on others. And me being draken-bonded now? It’s a miracle the alphas didn’t spontaneously combust from the insult.
What I hadn’t expected, were the auric steel bolts.
Hadn’t for a moment imagined that even Viera would stoop so low as to target a draken.
Once I realized I was bait for Nyx, I threw up my shield and kept them there for all I was worth while the wolves beat me unconscious.
Because Nyx would have come otherwise. And that wasn’t worth the risk.
I had no idea Viera would go for Rowan too.
I don't need your protection, cur, Nyx snarls.
Can we argue specifics later? An elbow catches me in the jaw, stars exploding across my vision.
I’m half a minute away, Nyx says.
I’m fine. Help Rowan.
I don’t take orders from you.
That crossbow is still about. Though I hope its owner is currently otherwise occupied. Try not to turn into a draken-shape paperweight.
Two more devotees flank me, circling with positioning that speaks of descent training.
They are probably from the same pack and squad too.
I wonder how hidden this underground movement of Viera’s truly is, and what they do when there isn’t a stray omega to put in his place or an alchemist to question.
"Where is ye wee draken now, omega?” the taller one taunts, his accent thick with the northern Flurry cadence. "Or has he finally worked out what you are?”
“We’d do the beastie a favor putting it down,” the shorter one tells his companion. “Tis’ a better fate than be stuck with this.” He waves his sword toward me.
I bare my teeth.
They attack simultaneously—coordinated, I'll give them that.
The taller one feints high while his partner goes low, aiming to hamstring me.
I twist sideways, the movement sending fresh agony through my ribs, and catch the first blade with my stolen sword.
Metal rings against metal as I kick out at the second attacker, forcing him back.
Protect your left side, Nyx observes unhelpfully.
I'm aware, I snap back, rolling away from a thrust that would have skewered my kidney.
The shorter hooded figure presses his advantage, his blade a silver blur as he drives me backward toward the now burning patch of underbrush.
Heat licks at my back, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades as I wonder whether we’ll have a forest fire by the end of the night.
I parry three rapid strikes, each impact jarring up my arm, before ducking under his fourth swing and driving my elbow into his solar plexus.
Short doubles over with a satisfying wheeze, but before I can finish him, the taller one is on me again. His blade slices across my forearm, opening a shallow cut that immediately wells with blood.
If you die from stupidity, I will personally drag you back from whatever afterlife claims you just to kill you again, Nyx informs me.
I feint right, then pivot left, using Short’s momentum against him. As he stumbles past, I bring the pommel of my sword down hard on the back of his head. The thick skulled bastard staggers but doesn't fall and the pair converges on me again.
My muscles burn, my body shoving its way through the fatigue. My movements slow. Tall sees his opening and lunges forward, his blade aimed directly at my chest.
I twist. I know I won't be fast enough to fully avoid the strike, but if I can defect the blade enough to—
A wave of opaque magic pulses through me and continues on in rippling rings that expand outward. The sensation is not painful exactly, but overwhelming, like standing too close to a lightning strike.
More to the immediate point, the sword coming toward my chest shudders, then crumbles. Not breaks—crumbles, disintegrating into rust-colored dust that sifts through the attacker's fingers like sand. My own weapon does the same, dissolving in my grip before I can process what's happening.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, echoing the sentiment that’s quickly spreading around the clearing as fights halt, the combatants staring at their empty hands or the piles of orange dust at their feet.
Who, not what, Nyx corrects.
Who the fuck?, I send through gritted mental teeth, already twisting toward where the ripples of magic seemed to originate from. Me and everyone else.
From what I can see, your pet human.
I break into a sprint. Trees streak on either side of me, and a shrill whistle issues some sort of order.
I don’t care what it is or who it's for. I don’t care about anything until I finally see Rowan, her slight frame silhouetted against the trees, one hand still outstretched toward a figure now swiftly dissolving into the trees.
I call out for her.
Rowan looks my way, our gazes meeting for a moment across the night forest. Her emerald dress is torn, each shred of silk fluttering in the breeze to tease her perfect form.
Perfect yet so so fragile, pushed to the very limit of its capacity.
I’ve never met someone who can look beautiful and a shade short of unconscious at the same time.
And that isn’t even the biggest trick she’s pulled off in the last five minutes.
“Logan?” My name is a whisper on her lips. She extends her hand toward me.
And collapses.