18. Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WILDER
T he snow settles in haphazard piles around us, the aftermath of an avalanche carving deep shadows across the mountains. I can still taste the metallic zing of magic in the air, fresh and bitter, the kind that leaves a curse burning on your tongue. Magic of a blood fae. Azazel.
I’d recognize it anywhere.
In the prison, blood fae were brought in to fortify our cells every few years, and I’ll never forget the change it makes to the water molecules permeating the air.
And there, through the thinning veil of snow and night, I see her—Morte—held tight in his grip.
I reach out instinctively, channeling every ounce of magic I possess to try and sift to her, but the realm grinds against me, impenetrable, like an iron cage around sifting. It repels us, denying any path forward, locking us out of reach.
My heart slams against my ribs, fighting to break free, to cross the distance between us, but all I can do is watch as Azazel wraps his shadows around her, dragging her into the fold of his power. She lifts her arm, fingers stretching toward us, and her mouth opens, though I can’t hear her scream through the roar of my own pulse or the cries from the servants half-buried under the avalanche.
A sickening finality grips me as Az’s magic swells, tearing her from this world in a brutal surge. The very ground beneath them trembles, the snow falling away, leaving nothing but emptiness where they once stood.
So close. We were so fucking close.
I should be able to channel all this moisture in the snow, to bend it to my will, but it’s like trying to grasp smoke. The magic here is twisted, warped by some force I can’t comprehend. My power flickers and dies before it can take hold.
“Gone,” Emeric snarls beside me, his fists shaking as he tries to impound the scraps of their fading presence. “He took her.”
Rage sears through me, my skin alive with the urge to strike, to tear through anything and anyone that would stand in my way. But all that’s left is a deep well, the lingering ache of her absence filling the night.
“I’m going to kill him,” Caius mutters, each word dripping with agony. “Rip him limb from limb. And stab him, over and over.”
“Get in line,” I growl.
My attention snags on Aggonid, whose sole focus is on King Valtorious standing on a ridge hundreds of yards from us, giant torch in hand, illuminating his face in harsh shadows. Beside him is another fae, and the two of them stare at us. The other male stands beside King Valtorious, statuesque against the onslaught of the blizzard. Snow clings to the dark contours of his tailored coat, accentuating his tall, lean form. The smirk tugging at his lips is neither amused nor kind; it is an expression of dominance, a silent statement that he knows we see him, and he revels in it.
“He should be sifting away,” Aggonid murmurs, studying the scene. His red eyes blaze as he scans the devastated campsite. Tents are torn to shreds, and fire pits have been snuffed out. The snow is scorched in some areas, and littered with debris in others.
Shadows writhe and twist around the devil, as though tasting the air, trying to piece everything together, but they don’t stray far from his form. It’s as though this place repels his power.
I try to call my magic, to drown the king where he stands, but it alludes me. The giant well that usually flows through me like a raging river is barely a trickle, leaving me feeling hollow and useless, just like I used to feel when I was in prison while bound with manacles.
The realization slams into me like ice down my spine, locking my breath in my throat. Of course. “It’s a trap.”
I sense the strange thrum beneath the snow and rock—a pulsing, unnatural beat that pulls at every tether of power I try to summon. The entire mountain feels like it’s holding its breath, winding around us, binding us in ways I can’t untangle.
A small valley away, the king stands with a twisted calm, his features almost skeletal. His eyes take on a clinical coldness, as though dissecting us from afar. Whatever he’s done to the realm’s boundaries, he’s bound it tightly—like he’s woven his very essence into the mountains around us, sealing our powers and twisting the threads of magic beyond our reach.
Beside me, Aggonid’s scrutiny narrows, studying the camp with an intensity that sharpens my own unease. His magic flares but fades just as quickly, swallowed by the binding around us. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters, his attention landing back on the ridge where Valtorious stands, with whom I presume is his right hand, both of them watching on like they’ve already won.
Emeric lets out a low, frustrated growl. “A fucking trap.” His fingers twitch as he struggles to summon his magic. “He’s locked us here—stopping us from getting anywhere near her.”
Aggonid grits his teeth, his shadows twisting but dissipating the second they reach the boundary. “We need to find a way around this binding. He’s buying time for something.”
“Can’t you use your water trick?” Caius glances at me, a trace of impatience in his eyes. I study him for a second—this demon with a tail coiled behind him, skin glowing with runes that shift under his skin. From what I know, he’s completely unhinged. Guess you’d have to be; tasked with reading every twisted crime and sin, passing judgment, and then dealing out punishment.
How in all realms is this someone Morte chose to bind herself to?
“I tried. Nothing happens,” I mutter, frustration edging my voice.
“Should we call the reapers?” Emeric folds his arms, directing the question to Aggonid without looking away from Valtorious. The hellhound towers over both Caius and Aggonid, his pale eyes hard and fixed. His build is broader, every line tense as he assesses the scene.
Aggonid’s attention waivers, his expression darkening with thought. “Reapers are resistant to most curses, spells, and bonds meant to trap us,” he says, almost to himself.
“Many have tried—and failed—to subvert death when it comes calling.” Caius grins.
“Assuming they’d even help us,” I add, watching Aggonid closely.
A faint smirk touches his lips. “They know what’s good for them.”
“Fine, then.” I shrug. “How do we reach them?”
All three of them turn their gaze on me, something predatory taking residence in their expressions.
“You die.”