Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lavinia had found the rogue. He was crafty, she had to give him that.
He had laid trap within trap, spell within spell.
Some of them were deadly, others just aimed to delay or confuse.
Despite his efforts, the Sisters were closing in, the witches behind them.
Lavinia’s instinct had been correct: the rogue had hidden himself towards the north wall, as far away from any entry points as could be.
The closer she got, the stronger the stench of his blood became, overpowering even the cloying scent of the excess of magic he’d manipulated.
As Lavinia slashed through a wall made of a translucent silver web, she saw him flitting behind a pile of upturned desks.
Beyond the desks was the wall of the warehouse.
There was nowhere for him to run. Even if he somehow blasted through the wall itself—and having seen what he could do, Lavinia didn’t doubt for a moment that he was capable of it—Messalina would be on the other side, waiting for him.
It would take only moments for her to get her hands on him.
She renewed her assault on the magical web.
Beside her, Brigh let out a wordless battle cry that reverberated in Lavinia’s bones.
Outside, the sun was setting. A whisper of night brushed up against her, promising power beyond her daytime limits.
The muscles in her arms burned, fighting against the strange resilience of the wall of magic.
Brigh added the strength of her axe, and two of the witches stood behind them, their eyes closed, an eerie, unnatural light shining from their palms as they did whatever they did to counteract the spell that had summoned the wall.
Sweat poured down Lavinia’s forehead, slicked the small of her back underneath her armour.
She switched to a two-handed grip, putting all of the strength of her shoulder and back into the thrust. A few strands of the web unravelled.
Octavia joined, then Luce. The invisible force that fuelled the Sisterhood rose between them, around them.
Together, the witches at their backs, they tore through the wall.
There was no time for celebration. They were like hounds who had caught a scent. Wordlessly, they surrounded the pile of furniture that hid the rogue. A glance was shared between them. Outside, the sun cast its last rays across the city. The stars rose, keening a hunting song.
The Sisters charged. Lavinia vaulted over the desks, her knees and hip protesting as she landed. The moon took over, blanketing her in the power of the night, raising her strength despite her fatigue.
The rogue sat in a circle of blood. By the bitter smell of it, it was his.
He bled freely from a cut on the inside of his arm.
With one finger, he drew another sigil onto the concrete beside him.
At the rush of approaching footsteps he looked up, his bloodshot eyes flashing yellow.
He hissed, baring stubby and poorly formed fangs.
Then, he smiled, planting his hand onto the floor and whispering a word in a language Lavinia didn’t understand.
Reality tore, not just once, but twice, thrice, countless times. The tears birthed shapeless horrors of shadow and fire. Demons.
There was no time to think, no time to breathe.
One moment, there had only been one rogue to contend with.
Now the Sisters were inundated in demonspawn, tearing, burning, snapping at the Sisters.
She had a fleeting thought that she’d hoped the witches had taken cover, as their skins were unprotected.
Lavinia spun out of the path of a hellhound, giant fangs snapping shut where she’d stood only a moment before.
She stabbed through the heart of a tenebris, its body of shadow curling back into itself with a hiss.
The rogue, where had he gone? She scanned the battlefield, ignoring the blood and fire and unholy screeching of the demonspawn.
The rogue was at the heart of all of this.
He was the one who directed all of them, who controlled them.
He had to be stopped—not just now, but forever.
He would never be able to threaten Michelle ever again.
A white-hot rage tore through Lavinia at the thought of Michelle, at how close she had been to death if Lavinia hadn’t happened to be at the right place at the right time. Michelle could have been one of these poor souls, trapped in his unnatural grasp. He had to die.
Lavinia kicked a tall, horned demon in its back, the impact causing it to fall onto the blade of Octavia’s sword.
She slashed at another, tearing its arm from its shoulder, the limb turning to ash before it hit the ground.
The stench of sulphur suffocated the air as she fought her way through the throng.
Everywhere demons roared, crawled, slithered, and strode, their burning eyes full of hate.
A brief opening formed after Luce pierced a hellhound with her spear.
The rogue had turned away from battle, probably to summon yet another abomination.
His energy seemed boundless, spells spilling from him one after another. They had to stop him now.
The fire of night in her veins, the thought of Michelle on her mind, Lavinia let go of any further thought beyond the flow of the battle, the feel of the sword, its grip slickened by her chafed and bleeding hands.
She paid the minor injury no mind, only used the pain to focus her on her single objective: reaching the rogue.
Step by step, she fought through countless demons, pushing or kicking them aside for her Sisters to finish off whatever they could.
She knew they were there. She knew they would protect her back.
She was the point of the wedge, coming closer and closer to the rogue, bent over another one of his creations, drawing with one bloody finger.
Lavinia broke through. She didn’t waste any time, didn’t wait for another demon to appear or attack.
Within the blink of an eye, she was at the rogue’s back.
She lifted her sword, but before she could bring it down, the rogue rolled away, hissing and baring his misshapen fangs as he crouched on the ground.
In a way, finally coming face to face with him was a disappointment.
Up close, this rogue looked like any other.
His skin was waxy and grey. The blood vessels of his eyes had burst, bathing his irises in red.
His clothing was torn and soiled, the blood of his victims coating the fabric of a threadbare hoodie.
His gaze had that edge of the predator, that animalistic quality common to all rogues.
But at the same time, there was a gleam of cunning and self-awareness, an intelligence that had not yet been burned away by bloodlust. Rather than fleeing or mindlessly attacking, the two instinctual options that a rogue would choose between, this one threw some makeshift magic at Lavinia, forcing her to step aside.
The rogue used the opportunity this created to draw further lines, completing the intricate design he had shaped onto the floor.
His hand was steady, keeping one eye on Lavinia’s approach.
Whatever the rogue was doing, it wouldn’t be anything good.
Lavinia launched a kick at the centre of his body, forcing him off-balance as he tried to avoid most of the momentum of the kick.
She followed it up with a swift punch with the pommel of her sword, connecting with a satisfying crack onto the rogue’s right shoulder, breaking a bone.
The rogue roared with pain and turned his full attention to Lavinia, no longer able to ignore her.
He jumped at her, catlike, fingers outstretched like claws.
Lavinia crouched, angled her body, and slammed her shoulder into the rogue’s midriff as he sailed through the air.
The blow forced the rogue’s breath from his lungs and he slumped to the ground, gasping.
Lavinia lifted her blade again, but before she could strike, the rogue skittered across the ground on hands and knees in an uncomfortably insectile movement.
His fangs bared, he bit into the wound on his arm, refreshing the blood streaming from it.
His eyes gleamed red and he smiled a bloody grimace at Lavinia.
Then he placed one bloody handprint in the middle of his design.
Nothing happened. No further monster from the depths of hell appeared.
No magical wall of flame or shadow. Lavinia didn’t wait for anything to show up.
She struck, and this time her sword found its target.
The blade sank deep into the rogue’s bowels, and the vampire screeched.
He writhed in agony on the floor for a moment, then subsided, panting through the pain and blood loss.
His body had already been weakened by the barrage of magic he had summoned.
The blade had severed his spine, piercing vital organs. It was a killing blow.
His bloodshot eyes were filled with a potent combination of agony and hate. “You’re too late,” he hissed, bubbles of blood forming on his stained lips.
Lavinia’s breath caught in her chest. Rogues didn’t speak—especially not ones that were so deep into their descent into bloodlust as this one clearly was.
She didn’t answer. The rogue laughed, a horrible coughing and wheezing sound, blood spilling from his mouth.
“All of the little candles out in the night, their wicks unlit. It was so easy, so incredibly easy to take them for myself. To take the magic that they didn’t realise they had.
” He bared his misshapen teeth again. “You’ve spoiled my fun, you bitch.
” Dark blood pooled around the wound in his stomach.
Lavinia pulled out the sword, the lethal injury widening.
The rogue gritted his teeth, stifling an agonised moan.
There was no joy in watching him die. Lavinia merely stood guard, her eyes cold.
“What did you do?” she said.
“I sent one of my friends to visit a little candle I haven’t snatched yet. The one you kept away from me. She shines so brightly in the night, surrounded by moths, but none of her little moths are with her now, are they? She has left her little cage and is all alone.” He took a shivering breath.
Lavinia’s heart stood still in her chest, a spear of icy fear piercing her. Michelle. She was unguarded right now, but she was in the apartment. She had to be safe. She knew not to leave, and she wouldn’t be reckless. Was the rogue lying?
The hateful mirth on his face wasn’t feigned. He had done something, had somehow sent another monster to Michelle.
There was no way she could defend herself against a demon.
Michelle would die, and Lavinia would not be able to save her.