Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Beaufort
I search through the turmoil for Briony.
Smoke, magic, flame, shadows spiral everywhere, mixing with the fog, suffocating my lungs, making it hard to see anything at all around me.
Those around me, hidden from my view, grunt. They groan. They moan. It’s clear everyone is fighting for their lives.
But I keep searching.
I duck a fire-bolt, send a stream of shadows toward someone aiming at me, and swipe away another attack; I can’t see Briony or Thorne or Dray or anyone else. I call her name, and I keep moving. Pushing through. Fighting my way.
I can’t let my mother get to her first. Or Bardin. I have to find her. I have to protect her.
I elbow someone in the face. Push another to the ground. Send shadows into another’s gut. Someone hits me, and a stream of hot fire flies right past my ear.
I keep moving, pushing through the smoke and the smog, the mist and the shadows, until I break free, coughing and spluttering onto the academy field.
This was where we were meant to meet. This is where we were meant to go, regroup, and lure my mother.
But there’s no one here.
I’m all alone.
I swing around, calling Briony’s name again, about to rush back into the chaos of battle, when someone steps out onto the field to meet me.
Not my mother.
And not the deputy headmistress.
Kratos.
I groan.
I don’t have time for his bullshit now.
“Fuck off, Kratos,” I say, sending a stream of shadows his way before he has any time to respond.
I’m going to blow him to smithereens. I’m going to send him flying and hurry back to Briony.
To my utter disbelief, he simply bats my shadows away as if they’re nothing but an annoyance.
I growl and shove my hands forward, increasing the force, sending another volley his way.
He cackles with laughter, bats those away too, and comes striding toward me with all the arrogance he’s always possessed.
No, that’s wrong. He’s even more arrogant than before.
“I’m stronger than you now, Beaufort Lincoln,” he crows.
Something like fear stirs in my stomach, because as I send even more magic his way and watch him dispel it, I realize he could be right.
Damn that dream rot. I should have reported him. I should have killed his damn supplier. Has it really made him more powerful?
“I’m going to destroy you,” he says, with a grin that stretches back his lips and shows his row of slightly crooked teeth. “I’m going to destroy you and serve your mother your head on a fucking plate. I’m going to be the hero of this realm, Beaufort Lincoln. Not you. Me.”
He grunts and shoots his arms forward, an arrow of shadow magic firing right at me.
I meet it with my own, and the force of it sends me sliding along the icy grass.
Our magic struggles against each other, pushing, thrusting, shoving. I can feel the force of it cracking in my fingers.
His is stronger.
Fuck.
His is stronger!
Mine is pushed back, edging toward my outstretched hands.
How did I let this happen? How did I let him get this strong? I was stupid. Complacent. I always dismissed him as nothing more than a nuisance. I should have been paying better attention. I should have been paying better attention for her.
Because if I die, then what the fuck happens next? Without me, we can’t combine our magic and she can’t defeat the Empress.
I grit my teeth and push with all my might, my magic splintering and sparking as it assaults his shadows.
For a moment, it works, and they slide back toward him as he grunts and groans.
But it doesn’t last.
He finds something else. Soon it’s pushing back.
I can’t win this way.
I need to be smarter.
The man is as thick as two planks of wood. I’m cleverer than he is, even if I’m no longer stronger.
So I count in my head. Three. Two. One.
Then I break the connection and dive for the ground, somersaulting over the grass and landing back on my feet several yards away.
It takes him a moment to realize what’s happened, to redirect his shadows, and in that moment I’ve already fired mine back at him.
I get a lucky hit on his shoulder, and he snarls with pain.
He fires back my way. I swerve, dive, fall to the ground, send my shadows toward his feet this time, taking them out from beneath him and sending him tumbling.
Then I’m back up, firing toward him as he fires back.
Our shadows spiral in the air, swerving over our heads, as we dart across the field, chasing one another in a game of cat and mouse.
It’s not working, though. I didn’t take enough advantage while I had it. I didn’t make my strike lethal enough.
He’s injured, but not enough.
How long can I keep this up?
Then, as I spin away from another volley of his shadows, I slip on the ice. I land hard on my back.
He’s there above me.
His shadows wrap around my throat in the next moment, squeezing hard as I scrabble for breath.
“How the tables have turned,” Kratos sneers. “How the mighty have fallen.”
He squeezes harder, so hard I can feel my ears popping inside my head.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you slowly, Beaufort. You don’t deserve a quick, simple death.”
I try to breathe. Try to think. But all I can think of is my panic to breathe, the need for oxygen to fill my lungs.
They’re screaming inside my chest. My throat burns. My eyesight dims.
I scrabble at his shadows, fight them with all my might.
It’s not enough.
I am not enough.
I try to kick him. Try to spin myself around. But he simply steps aside, laughing as he does, kicking me instead right in the ribs and sending another punch of shadow magic into my gut.
I don’t even grunt. There’s no breath left in my body to do so.
Black begins to encroach my vision.
I have only seconds left.
I fight. I fight so damn hard.
But he’s beaten me.
First and only time, he’s beaten me.
My eyes drift shut. My shadows slip away. The world spins. Laughter rings in my ears. My hands drop lifelessly to my sides. And I hear a voice.
“Hey, boys, what are you doing?”
I pry open my eyes with the little strength I have left and blink up. My vision is blurred and swimming with tears, dark fraying at the edges.
Henrietta blinks straight back down at me. She has a sword in one hand, a club in the other, and a pair of nunchucks slung over her shoulders.
“Did the fun start without me?”
“Fuck off, Henrietta,” Kratos growls at her.
I can’t be sure – my vision is seriously screwed up – but I think she sticks her tongue out at him. Then she tosses the sword down to me. I reach up and catch it instinctively, my hands curling around the hilt.
Thunderstrike.
I can feel my magic buzzing again already. I can feel the sword responding to my touch.
I don’t waste a moment or miss a heartbeat. I swing the sword through the air, slicing through Kratos’s shadow magic, gasping for air as my throat is released, and then plunging the sword straight through his heart.
He looks at me, his gaze falling to his chest. His mouth hangs open in disbelief. He grips the blade, his hands running with blood.
“What?” he mutters.
It’s the last thing he says.
It was probably the first thing he said, too.
Stupid dumb fuck.
He tumbles to the ground, and I pull the sword from his dead body, wiping his blood away on the grass.
“What the hell are you doing here, Henny?” I say. “You’re meant to be protecting Arabella.”
“Hells Bells is safe. She’s fine. She’s with Linny,” she adds. “And sorry, but did you really think I was going to miss out on the fun?” She tuts, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head. “Anyway,” she says, pointing down at the lifeless body of Kratos, “looks like you needed my help.”
I sweep my hand through my hair, looking down at my feet. “Yeah. Thanks for that,” I say.
“No problem.”
“Where the hell did you get this from anyway?” I ask, turning the Thunderstrike sword over in my hands, admiring its gleaming metal.
“The palace is pretty much empty,” she says. “There was no one watching the weapons. I helped myself.”
She twirls the club around in her hands, then grips it firmly.
She looks up, toward the far side of the field where the battle is waging. She grins from ear to ear.
Then she’s skipping away.
I take a moment to pull air back into my chest, to steady myself, and then, with the sword in my hand, I run after her, back to the battle, back to Briony.