41. Evanee
Evanee
Freesia dropped me with Malachai and Lyra in the woods—then dove straight into the fray.
Thaddeus’s allies were a horde of Werewolves who hated the Fae.
They refused to serve and were banished to a small island just off the coast of the Eastern Realm.
A prison in all but name. Werewolves needed space to run.
To be free. The island had been small, and the food had run out in less than a month.
That’s when Thaddeus found them.
Freesia said he’d been sailing past when he spotted them. Curious, he went ashore where he learned of their hatred for the Fae. Befriended them. Kept them alive by supplying food and essentials. The payment? They answered when he called.
And now—they had.
They fought with everything they had, tearing into the Fae soldiers and fellow wolves. The King was forced to retreat with a fraction of his army already lost to the latrines.
Freesia hovered above, her gray, unmatched color blending into the storm-choked sky. Each arrow she loosed struck true.
The wind died, the snow turning to freezing rain as a group of forty Werewolves attacked the enemy with relentless ferocity. Growls, snarls, curses—the symphony of battle.
It became impossible to tell ally from enemy as wolves collided, a cacophony of snapping jaws reaching us here, deep in the tree line. Some of the Fae soldiers quickly retreated to a large hill, back toward the castle, presumably to let the beasts kill one another first.
My steps dragged to the edge of the trees, gaze locked on a flash of silver in the field.
The King stood there, a spear in his hand, a cruel smile spreading.
He drew his arm back.
My gaze tracked the aim—
“Freesia!”
Too late.
King Raul’s spear punched straight through her heart.
Her eyes flashed bright lilac—then dulled. Blood sprayed over the wolves as her body fell into the chaos below.
“No…”
Bark bit into my fingertips as I fell against a tree, vision blurring. I hadn’t known her. Didn’t know her story. But it felt like I’d thrown the spear myself.
“What is that?” Lyra squinted toward a hill on the other side of the battle.
“Skurs,” Malachai spat, a string of profanity following.
Blood drained from my face—no time for tears. The dead would be there to mourn later.
“There are at least several hundred,” I breathed. “Why are they just standing there?”
“Waiting for their orders. They’re not as mindless as everyone believes. They take orders from Cressida. They’ll slaughter everyone.” Malachai hit the rough bark beside him.
I reached for my Gargoyle. The connection was still fuzzy from that damn concoction Aiden gave me.
A Werewolf bolted for us, hackles raised, lip curled.
Instinctively, I reached for the weapon at my back—it wasn’t there. My teeth ground together.
Twenty feet.
Ten.
I steeled myself—
An arrow whistled past my head, striking the wolf between the eyes. I snapped around as Malachai lowered a bow, Lyra wide-eyed beside him with a quiver.
My skin prickled—my Gargoyle was waking up. The adrenaline must've burned off the remaining poison.
Sweat beaded as I concentrated, reaching through the haze to my Gargoyle—calling on her—
I shifted instantly, grimacing as my wounds stretched and moved. My leg was still fractured by the feel, but in this form, I was able to put weight on it for now.
“Evanee, you match—”
“I know!” I snarled at Malachai.
“You can’t go out there—you’re hurt and—” Lyra started.
“I will not leave them to die,” I hissed at her. She winced, but I couldn’t worry about her feelings. Not now.
I beat my wings once. Testing.
Pain flared down my back, but there was no other option.
I tried again, a frustrated scream leaving me when the pain in my back was too much. My muscles were too atrophied to lift me. Helplessness hooked into my mind like talons.
A large warm hand landed on my shoulder, and I turned to see Malachai’s furious, golden gaze.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, determination behind his words. My gaze raked over his injuries, the seriousness of them. I couldn’t let him risk himself. I couldn’t let anyone else die because of me.
“Who’s that?” Lyra yelled, tripping on herself as she tried to run past us.
I tensed, expecting some other horror to join the fray against us.
Glowing silver beneath a head of white.
Malachai straightened beside me.
“It can’t be…”
“Yes,” I grinned. “It’s him.”
“How? We were told he died,” Malachai said hoarsely.
Ryker came into view, and one thing came to mind;
Death incarnate.
Blood coated his hair and face. Gore stained his blades as he carved through the enemy like death given form. A wound gushed at his side, making my heart slam against my ribs—my Gargoyle clawed to get to him. I gritted my teeth and held where I was.
A Shadow Stalker lunged at him from out of nowhere.
A warning burned on my tongue, but he was so fast. His tail caught the wolf mid-air, slamming it against the ground before he turned and sliced off its head.
A howl rang over the battle—Dimitri’s large wolf form stood tall with three wolves behind him. He charged toward Ryker, who was crossing blades with a Fae, unaware of what came at his back.
“Ryker!” I screamed—he couldn’t hear me. Not over the sounds of battle and the raging storm. He sliced the Fae’s throat with his twin blades, then roared at his next target, taking another wolf’s head with barely a glance. Another Fae lunged with a spear, and Dimitri was almost on top of him.
“Ryker!”
His name ripped from my throat again.
“Shit,” Malachai hissed, limping to my side.
Ryker fought and fought. Every step he took, two more bodies would fall. In that year I first got to know him, I never saw him in an actual battle—I was enraptured. The steely focus, the way he used both swords in tandem, each swing quick and deadly.
I was so caught up watching him, I didn’t see Cressida at the top of the hill where the skurs stood frozen, until it was too late.
With a flick of her outstretched hands, the horde surged forward. The shrieks grated against my nerves, a new fear taking root.
Two skurs were within an arm’s reach of Ryker’s back—Dimitri was on him, too. My heart stuttered—
Dimitri leaped over Ryker, his incredible jaws locking around one skur’s head, ripping it clean off.
Ryker whipped around, catching the other skur across its chest with his sword. It stumbled back, giving him time to swing his other sword at its neck.
Injured wolves slowly limped off the field, shifting back to their human forms, covered in mud and blood—their screams of pain burrowing deep into my bones.
I had no idea who was on our side. But I found myself walking toward them, wanting—no. Needing to help in some way.
“Evanee—” Malachai started. But I barely heard him or anything else. My stomach knotted—the Fae King stalked to where the injured wolves gathered and began killing them all.
I snatched a sword from the ground, ignoring the stabbing pain that jolted in my leg with every strike of my foot on the ground as I dodged steel, teeth, and corpses.
His eyes widened as I came upon him, throwing his sword up at the last second. If I thought Aiden’s smiles cruel, the Fae Kings were the depiction of evil.
“Aiden said you had fire in you,” he laughed. “He was a fool in his pathetic attempt to win you over. ”
I slid my sword off his, the steel groaning as I arced it overhead and advanced, one step at a time. He cackled, effortlessly deflecting my strikes.
“I, on the other hand, believe in making things heel. I guess that’s why my wife chooses to hide in the summer palace. As if I couldn’t have her brought here any time I like.”
He twisted, pushing my sword off before landing a push kick to my stomach, sending me flying backward. Air rushed from my lungs at impact, my wings flat on either side.
My skin rippled as my Gargoyle retreated. I panted, catching my breath as he stood tall above me, pointing his sword at my bare chest. I fought a flinch and instead raised my chin.
“I’ll enjoy breaking you, Evanee. You will bear me a child so I can get my magic. The Witches owe me,” he seethed through gritted teeth.
“You won’t lay one fucking finger on me,” I bit out, shaking as the freezing rain bit into my skin.
“We’ll see about that.” Cruelty lit his features as he raised his sword.
A roar split the battlefield.
Thunder cracked—loud, close—shaking the ground beneath us.
I flinched, expecting lightning to cleave me in two. Werewolves howled—surging forward as the skurs faltered.
Ryker flew for the hill where the rest of the Skur army waited. His wings snapped wide—white flecks glowing like stars scattered across the night sky.
Thunder cracked again—a jagged bolt of lightning tore straight for him.
My breath caught.
The King shielded his eyes as Ryker lifted his hand… and caught it. Gripping it like a sword, he surged higher into the sky—and brought the bolt down, incinerating skurs. When he turned his head toward me, his eyes were pure silver.
No blue. No mercy.
“Impossible… " the King breathed as he watched Ryker with hunger, jaw slack.
I moved—taking advantage of his distraction, snatching my sword from the ground and swinging it as hard as I could. He deflected—but not before I carved a slice through his eye.
A bellow of rage tore from him, his free hand covering the mangled flesh. Blood spilled between his fingers. I didn’t hesitate—I ran, gritting my teeth as my leg half-dragged behind me.
I ducked branches and avoided bodies as his thunderous cry followed. The night flashed as Ryker summoned more lightning, tearing through that horrific army of abominations.
Malachai came into view—relief hit sharp and sudden.
“Get down!”
I dropped—his arrow loosed the same instant.
The scream of rage behind me said he hit his mark.
My gaze stayed locked on Malachai and Lyra as I forced myself up—half running, half falling—until I slammed into Lyra’s outstretched arms.
By the time I turned, shadows swallowed the King—he was gone.