Chapter 56
Iknow when Gashil is projecting into Finnian’s mind because he falls to one knee, his hand splayed out to catch his balance.
“Fight it, Finnian!” I yell, but my voice is hoarse and doesn’t carry. Shit. This is not what I had in mind when I wanted someone to have my back.
I push myself to my feet, but Gashil’s already hovering over Finnian, iron blade poised to slice—
Finnian leaps to his feet and punches Gashil.
Gashil screams. He claws at his face, his armored fingers too clumsy to pluck the slender sewing needle stabbed into his eye. He roars, knocking Finnian back. Finnian’s head hits the floor with a crack, and he falls still.
“Leave my friends alone!” I charge, rage blinding me to the pain that still burns through my body. I won’t let him get away with this. I won’t let him kill another one of my friends—my family.
I throw out my palms, aiming for his armor. Gashil flies back, his armor plates slamming into the wall with him trapped inside like an insect pinned to cork. Blood seeps from his pale, punctured eye.
My magic finds blades, a dagger soaring into each of my hands. I stalk toward Gashil, determined to never let him lay a hand on anyone else again. This time, he isn’t walking away from the fight.
Then visions swarm me. It’s as if I’m dragging myself through nightmare after nightmare.
First, the ballroom sconces are extinguished by a howling, battering wind.
Sleet pelts me. My hands are numb against the daggers, and my body shudders.
I tighten my grip and forge ahead, forcing one foot in front of the other.
Then the ballroom bursts into white flames.
They lick up the walls, painting the windows with wavering heat.
The projection even sizzles along my skin until the daggers burn in my grip.
Let go, Gashil’s magic urges. Drop the daggers.
The urge to listen is excruciating as the metal sears against my skin. “It’s not real,” I mutter. “Not real.” He should be right in front of me. I feel his armor still gripped in my magic, but his projections hide him.
That won’t matter. I’m almost there. Nothing will stop me once I reach him.
“You are weak, human!” Gashil yells into my mind.
My ribs ache as I laugh. “Try again. I’ve heard those words too many times for them to hurt anymore.”
He sneers. “You are no match for me. Release me at once, and we’ll have a fair fight!”
“Fair?” I scoff. “Nothing is fair in war.”
My magic guides me to his chest plate, pinpointing where his heart lies beneath. I tremble with effort, gritting my teeth to keep from screaming as I untether the armor from within. Metal shrieks like nails on stone as the armor tears, then peels back like a petal opening to the sky.
Beneath the carved hole, I feel his clothing, then nothing. Within that nothingness lies his beating, living heart.
I still can’t see him. But I know he’s there, likely cowering now that he’s the one who’s helpless. “I didn’t take you for a coward, Gashil. You won’t face your killer as she takes your life?”
He snarls. “You are still mistaken if you think I’ll let you—”
I plunge the first dagger through the torn gap, burying it until the hilt meets his chest. His scream thunders through me, echoing inside my skull with mind-shattering pain until it claims every thought, every sense of reality I try to hold onto.
Trembling to stay upright, I squeeze the second dagger and thrust it in beside the first.
Silence falls for three blissful seconds as the illusion melts away.
I sever my Gift, and he drops, each metal plate clanging together as he slumps against the wall.
One pale eye is wide open, frozen in pain.
The other is clouded and slick with fluid, Finnian’s needle still proudly stuck through it.
My chest heaves. I watch him as if any second, he’ll stand again, even though my magic caresses his lifeless body.
He’s dead, but Desmond’s strained cry means that Neiro isn’t.
I withdraw the daggers and pocket Finnian’s needle. I have to help Desmond, no matter how beaten and exhausted I am. No matter how badly I want to celebrate Gashil’s death with a relieved cry or even a chance to catch my breath, I must go.
Neiro and Desmond circle each other atop the balcony. Their blades clash.
The bánánach is yards away from me, fallen in battle. Its wings smoke, and its forked tongue hangs out, its yellowed eyes still. Thank the Gods for Auri, but she’s locked in a fight against two fomorian soldiers now.
Purple light pulses as another disc opens behind Neiro.
“No!” Desmond shouts. He backs away from the portal, and Queen Orla Meirden’s corpse rises. Blood has soaked her snow-white dress a ghastly red, and her bodice is torn, the wound through her heart open and gaping.
I run to the steps. Halfway up, Maeve blocks my path. She’s changed out of her gown, now dressed in armor like the fomorians. Her teeth are gritted, the short lower canines popping above her lip. “It’s not too late to run,” she says. “I won’t stop you.”
“I thought you knew me better than that, Maeve. I never run from a fight.”
Maeve sprays seeds from her pockets across the stairs and whispers a command.
The seeds crack and sprout from magic I didn’t know she was capable of.
The sprouts thicken and grow into thorny vines, but they struggle to anchor themselves in the stone.
Instead, they crawl toward Maeve and curl around her limbs.
The vines whip, one ensnaring my ankle. The thorns dig into my bare skin, and I throw my arms out for balance. “I don’t know how you expect this to beat me,” I tell her, slashing through the vines with my daggers.
They don’t stop growing, faster than thriving weeds. One smacks my arm, leaving behind irregular rows of cuts. Her voice trembles as she says, “I don’t want to beat you. I just need to keep you away from her. Please, Cyn. Turn around and go back home.”
“Avedor is my home. I won’t let you take it.” I throw my first dagger. Her vines surge and wrap around the dagger before it can strike.
Maeve lunges. She jabs, and I block with my forearm. I move in for an uppercut, and she takes the hit, then strikes with her own. As I stagger back, she hesitates, her lavender eyes wide with worry.
I didn’t expect her to know how to fight, but she lacks the conviction to win. I land a hard hit to her face, shove her onto her back so her body is strewn across the stairs, and hold my second dagger to her throat.
“Why did you do it? Were you working for them the whole time?”
“No!” she shouts.
“Then why did you betray us?”
She winces. The round nose that I’ve seen crinkle so many times when she laughs now leaks blood. “You don’t understand! Neiro has my mother’s family.”
“What?” I falter, but I don’t lower the dagger.
“Grandmother vowed she’ll die if I don’t obey. Then her husband next. Mom remarried after my dad died. She was happy.” Maeve’s face screws tight with grief, and tears waver in her pale eyes. “Then their children. Neiro kills children, Cyn.”
“What about the guild?” I demand. “What about Nikolai? He’s dead because you betrayed us!”
“I had to keep my duty to my family!” she cries out. “Even if it meant sacrificing the one I found.”
Duty.
That’s a word I’m tiring of fast.
I press the dagger in, preparing myself to get it over with. Her dark blood—orc and fomorian—beads on the blade. Maeve’s lip quivers, but she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t plead with me to spare her.
“Gods dammit,” I seethe, pulling it back. I can’t bring myself to kill her. This isn’t the same as murdering Gashil. His only motivation was violence, but Maeve. . .
If someone had captured my family, would I have betrayed the guild to save them? I don’t know. The thought is hard to stomach.
Neiro screams, startling me. I risk a look up at the balcony and gasp. “Oh, Gods. He didn’t.”
Queen Orla’s eyes glow an otherworldly blue, a color that I’ve seen too recently. Her lips are snarled in a malevolent smile as she holds her raised hands toward Neiro, who’s fallen to her knees.
Magic pulses, almost tangible. Desmond stands behind Orla, strain pinching his face as his shoulders bow in. Motes of light flow from Neiro’s chest to Orla’s. Neiro doubles over, her milky skin losing all traces of color.
Orla’s grin widens.
“Desmond, stop!” I yell. “She’s too powerful!”
I never knew much about Avedor’s queen, but her will is overpowering Desmond’s. She’s sentient even after death, and I know exactly what she’s becoming.
A draugr wight. A revenant so powerful that they can still use their magic. Just like the one I faced with Evie in the barrow. Just like King Olin.
Realization flashes in Desmond’s eyes. He fists his hands, then grunts.
Orla staggers, but she doesn’t stop. She keeps siphoning Neiro’s vitality into herself.
“I can’t control her!” Desmond yells. “She has too much magic!”
Neiro thrashes, her eyes rolling back. Her skin desiccates like a corpse’s.
I back away from Maeve. She scrambles to her feet, sees what’s happening, and screams.
Desmond draws his sword and runs at Orla. The queen screeches. A maelstrom of power whips through the air, throwing Desmond back. None of Orla’s regal composure remains—only a crazed anger from beyond the grave.
“We have to stop her,” I tell Maeve. “She’ll siphon from us all until there’s nothing left.”
Maeve’s eyes are wide with panic, but she nods. “What do we do?”
“Decapitation or fire. That’s the only way to kill them.”
Orla laughs, the sound too chilling to be human. Darkness consumes the ballroom, and any guests who haven’t fled already are running now.
“There is one other way,” I realize, glancing at the clock. Two minutes until midnight, but it might as well be an eternity. “I need to get closer.”
“Closer?” Maeve squeaks. As I advance, she follows me, her vines still wrapped around her limbs.
Desmond groans as he stands. He notices our approach, and his expression twists with fear. “Run!” he calls out, begging me.
I ignore him. He can’t stop Orla. No one can, except for me.