Chapter 27 #2
A cluster of armed men rushed through. At the front was the one who had seen Septimus and me over his friend’s dead body. I only barely glimpsed his face before he threw up his palm and a cloud of purple smoke suffused the air.
My lungs contracted. I let out a cough. My vision blurred, senses growing slippery, already addled by wine and drugs from earlier.
Gods fucking damn it. Illusion dust—a magic of Kajmar.
I narrowly dodged a silver bolt whizzing by. It opened a river of blood along my left arm. I swung Zefiah, who let out a mighty blast of light as she took off one attacker’s head in a clean sweep.
Another dove for me, then screamed as his sword arm and his weapon fell to the ground in a bloody thump.
But there were so many of them. More still, pouring in through the hall.
{You will need to kill everyone in this place to get to the front door,} Zefiah said as she sliced through another hand, and I barely dodged a silver bolt.
The floor seemed to tilt, the window frame melting as if made of wax left in the sun. Someone was throwing up more and more of that illusionism smoke. Zefiah’s bursts of gold light bounced off thick clouds of lavender.
Someone grabbed my shoulder, and a burst of pain exploded through me. I lurched backward, then stumbled, and then I was against the far wall, pressed to velvet curtains.
The hunter’s breath was thick with alcohol. The fuzzy unnatural pleasantness of the venther was beginning to wear off. His face seemed to melt between inhuman beauty and grotesque fury.
“Where is the vampire?” Spittle flecked across my face. He bellowed like I was across the room. “Where is he, whore?”
That was a great question.
I peered over my shoulder, through the window behind me—down, where a horse pranced anxiously at the front steps, a cloaked figure atop it. Septimus looked up, and his broken-glass eyes met mine, as if in silent confirmation.
The man followed my gaze. His face shifted. He shouted, “There—!”
I drew back Zefiah and smashed the window.
Behind me, the hunters converged. Below, Septimus urged his horse into a run, his gaze locked to mine, one hand raised.
No one gets to kill me but you, right, Zef?
{Kyrene, wait—}
I flung myself out the shattered window.
My stomach fell out beneath me. The cold mountain air rushed by.
I had never liked heights, not since the night I’d toppled from the third story of the Citadel of the Destined Dawn and somehow survived.
And as the ground rushed toward me and my mortality grew suddenly fragile again through the haze of drugs and adrenaline, I thought, Maybe not your smartest idea after all, Kyrene.
But then, a red mist surrounded me. A strange sensation bubbled in my veins, hot, like someone was moving my body without my permission. My limbs locked. My fall slowed. The ground approached, but more slowly.
I looked down at myself to see tendrils of elegant crimson pouring from my open wounds, wrapping around me like ribbons, and leading down to Septimus’s outstretched hand.
It was nothing like what I imagined flying to feel like. It was as if I were being suspended from within, and while definitely preferable to squashing to the ground like a bug, it was not a pleasant sensation.
The landing was not exactly smooth. I let out an unintended oof as I fell clumsily to the ground.
“Get up,” Septimus said urgently. I looked up to see his hand outstretched. The horse’s eyes were wide, whites showing as it anxiously eyed the plumes of colorful smoke pouring from the broken window. The hunters above screamed curses. A crossbow bolt landed six inches to my left.
I took Septimus’s hand and let him pull me onto the horse, placing me in front of him.
“Where’s the other horse?” I asked, as he clicked his tongue and urged our mount into a gallop.
“Stolen.”
And he was scolding me for leaving my possessions unintended.
A bolt whizzed to our left, then another just ahead. The horse let out a shriek of pain and flinched. I prayed it wasn’t a direct hit.
Septimus shoved the reins into my hands. “Here.”
I looked over my shoulder as he turned around in the saddle and lifted both his hands. Behind us, in the rapidly shrinking temple, half a dozen men now stood at the balcony, some aiming bows at us, others climbing down for pursuit.
“What are you—”
I didn’t know why I bothered asking.
Ropes of red shot from Septimus’s palms.
Bloodthirsty battle cries broke into gurgling screams.
Bodies burst into smears of scarlet seconds before we rounded a corner in the cliff path.
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
Septimus turned around, pleased with himself.
“Not bad,” he said to himself. “Not bad.”
Not bad indeed.
Our poor, loyal horse ran and ran and ran until too much time had passed to remember when we’d last heard even the faintest echoes of shouts behind us.
We had wound deep into the narrow, deserted roads leading into the mountains, taking a path so convoluted it would be difficult for anyone to follow.
Once we were certain no one was on our tail, we finally slowed to a stop.
I became very aware of Septimus’s arms around me. My back was against his chest. I could feel his breath rustling the wavy strands of my hair. I was still practically naked, and my exhale ended in a slight shiver.
After the constant pounding of hoofbeats and blood in my ears, the silence was all-consuming.
Anyone after us, Zef?
{No. Not for miles.}
“No companions,” I said. Septimus and I dismounted. I slid to the ground like a pool of jelly. Our horse, exhausted, groaned appreciatively, and Septimus stroked her nose in thanks.
I sank to my knees, then fell backward, until I was splayed out in the dirt. The sky spread out above us, cold and clear.
“It’s really night right now,” I said. “You can tell because the stars are a little brighter, if you look close.”
And then I began laughing, and laughing, and laughing. I couldn’t stop. My muscles convulsed. I rolled over to curl up on myself.
{Six bleeding blades, Kyrene. What is wrong with you?}
Septimus kneeled beside me, eyes narrowed. One glance at his serious concern made me collapse into laughter again.
“Fucking hell, Septimus. Don’t look so serious.”
“How much of that smoke did you inhale?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine! It’s just—”
I wiped tears from my eyes.
“A pleasure temple full of vampire hunters. The god of pleasure cultivates fucking vampire hunters.”
That was what this world had come to. A god who, ten years ago, was in charge of drunken parties and pretty illusions now used his proclivities for drugs and wine as a weapon.
“Can you imagine if they’d been the ones to end us?” I was starting to laugh again. “What would your family have said? Here lies Septimus. Ended by pleasure.”
He stared at me, completely serious, then said, “But what a way to go.”
And then he began to laugh, too.
It was such an elegant, musical sound—more elegant than anyone ever should be when laughing maniacally about drug-armed pleasure hunters. He sank down beside me and let his head sag, the laughter rising until we were both howling at the moon like wolves.
{This is embarrassing,} Zefiah sniffed.
“Zefiah is ashamed of us,” I choked out between gasps.
“She should be. I’m ashamed of us.”
Septimus was the first to collect himself. He let out a heaving sigh, then looked up at the sky.
“You’re right,” he said. “The stars are brighter at night. I’ve never noticed before.”
“It’s nice to feel the passage of time sometimes.”
His expression shuttered. “I wish I could stop feeling it,” he remarked.
Then he turned to me, the spark in his eye restored, and there was something in that look—that easy, fleetingly unguarded look—that almost looked like actual affection.
And for some reason, it made my breath catch in my chest, sharper and more dangerous even than the way he had looked at me when I’d spread my legs for him.
He got to his feet, then extended his hand to me. When I took it, that seemed more intimate, too.
I stood, but his hand remained around mine. I looked down at it and frowned. His fingers were trembling.
He followed my gaze, then smoothly extracted it and slid it into his pocket.
I could feel something looming over us, dangerous and cold, something I desperately wanted to avoid looking at for as long as I possibly could.
So I said, voice light, “Well, what do you think, Prince Septimus? Was a bath and a bed worth all of that?”
“Technically, we didn’t even get to sleep in the beds.” And though he was subtle—though he tried to hide it—I felt his gaze linger on my body, still so exposed, when he said, “But I think it was worth it anyway, lyri.”