Chapter 61 Archer
Chapter sixty-one
Archer
“Ferox!”
The shriek of the female witch was loud and devastated, her sob ghosting through the night as she sat huddled on the grass where her hell hound had just stood.
“Ferox,” she cried again, her fingers dragging through the ash that the hell hound had left behind. “My baby.” Lifting her gaze, she leveled a ferocious glare at Delilah. “How could you?”
“Pandora was only defending me,” Delilah attempted to explain.
Needlessly, in my opinion, but my witch had a soft heart.
“I’ll kill you!” the witch shrieked, raising her hands toward my mate. “Ardeat!” Instantly, her hands were wreathed in flame, snapping and spitting in response to her anger.
Quicker than thought, I moved, spinning Delilah behind me and spreading my wings wide to protect her. The witch stared at me, her hands on fire, her eyes wet with pain.
“Orla! No!” shouted the tattooed man, throwing himself toward her in an attempt to stop her from starting what was most assuredly a losing battle. “It’s done. Don’t get yourself killed because that mutt didn’t know when to show neck.”
“Don’t you talk about him that way, Malachi!” Orla cried, turning her wrath on him. “You hated him!”
“Orla,” Malachi snapped, his hand darting out to slap her across the face, the shock of it had her releasing her magic, the flames blinking out as though they were never there.
“Hey!” Corson hollered, stepping forward. Raising his fist, he punched Malachi in the face, the heavy contact causing the tattooed man to stumble backward in shock.
“Ten points!” Vine shouted, his manic chuckle ringing out over the hedge maze.
“What the fuck?” Malachi questioned, his nose bleeding freely down his face.
“How do you like it?” Corson snarled, leaning forward to get in Malachi’s face.
“You think you’re so tough, slapping her around?
” Enraged, Corson thrust his sword point-first into the damp grass, leaving it standing straight up.
Raising his hands to show how empty they were, Corson backed away, leaving space between him and the bleeding, tattooed witch.
“Let’s see how tough you really are. You and me, witch. No weapons, just us.”
Malachi eyed Corson, running his fist under his nose to wipe away the blood. I could see the hesitation, the fear that underscored his bravado. Bullies like him were always more bluster than sense. A smart man would have backed down.
A smart man wouldn’t have slapped the woman to begin with, but Malachi, apparently, wasn’t very smart.
Turning his head, he tossed the gun aside and spat a glob of blood onto the grass, then lifted his chin as he met Corson in the clearing.
“You’re on, you demon bastard. I’m sure someone will pay good money for your tattered corpse. Fortis!” He shouted the word, one of the rune tattoos on the back of his fist suddenly glowing with the command as he swung for Corson’s face.
For his part, Corson didn’t move, taking the hit square in the jaw, allowing Malachi a gloating smile as he shook out his magically enhanced fist and squared up again.
Beside me, Delilah stiffened, and through the bond, I sensed her desire to intervene, to protect both Corson and the fool who dared to challenge him.
“Peace, my witch,” I murmured, curling her into me and holding her close. “You must allow this to happen.”
She shook her head, clearly reluctant to do as I’d asked, but didn’t protest further.
“Augendae vires!” This time, the runes on both of Malachi’s arms began to glow, the magical tattoos that ran from his hands to his elbows lighting up the night with their unearthly blue radiance.
He came at Corson, swinging first one, then the other fist, connecting firmly both times.
Corson absorbed both hits, his body held tight as his feet slid backward, leaving muddy divots in the grass.
Hit after hit, Malachi swung, his spelled fists striking Corson on the face and body over and over, but never once did Corson defend himself.
After dozens of hits, Malachi, exhausted and gasping for breath, released the spell, letting his arms dangle uselessly at his sides as he stared at Corson, who only grinned, his blood-filled smile like something out of the darkest corners of Hell.
“Is that all you have?” Corson asked, his voice low. “You honestly thought that you, a mediocre witch—an unscrupulous, devious prick who abandoned your coven and its principles—could best me?”
Taking one slow step forward, Corson advanced on Malachi, his brows drawn down over eyes that glowed a deep, angry yellow.
“You thought your tricks and spells would be enough to take me down?” Corson let out a laugh that was pure malice.
“I stood when the walls of Jericho fell. I have battled on the muddy banks of the River Styx, choking on slime, fighting for breath against the most Wrathful men in the history of existence. I have fought in battles that you’ve never heard of, and I will fight in many more in the eons to come.
But you?” He paused, eyeing Malachi with grim amusement. “You have just fought in your last.”
With that, Corson drew back one heavy fist and delivered a punch directly to Malachi’s chest. The sound of ribs shattering was enough to turn even the toughest of stomachs, and while Delilah flinched, she did not look away.
Through the bond, I could feel her revulsion, my sweet mate so reluctant to see anyone come to harm.
If only I could protect her from the reality that she would face having me as her mate.
Corson struck Malachi again, and this time, his whole fist entering the witch’s chest cavity, and the tattooed witch offered a grunt of stunned surprise before Corson twisted his arm and pulled, removing Malachi’s still beating heart from his body.
Orla screamed, covering her face as Malachi’s body dropped to the grass with a resounding thud, still and sightless, the hole in his chest steaming lightly in the cool night air.
“Still hungry?” Corson asked Vine, holding up the heart.
“Nah.” Vine shook his head, his lip curling. “No fishy witches, remember?”
With a careless shrug, Corson tossed the pulpy mess over his shoulder where it was immediately consumed by my shadows.
Moving toward us, Corson stopped before Delilah, his gaze taking in her blood soaked hands before he dipped his chin in a show of respect.
“Not bad for a liability, hey?” she teased, her smile shaky.
“Not bad at all,” he returned, then took up a place on her other side.
“Do the rest of you have anything else to say?” Mex called, glaring at the remaining witches.
Orla shook her head, her miserable sniffling the only thing she offered.
The other two were just as useless, one cradling his ruined arm to his chest, the other just staring at the body of their former leader.
“Because I have had just about enough of this shit in my city tonight.”
“I have something to say,” came the soft, lilting voice of Genevieve.
We watched as the Vampire Queen wiped her tears and climbed to her feet, her crimson gown ragged and torn, but her chin high as she moved away from her captors and came to stand before me.
Even bloodied, she carried herself like Versailles incarnate, every inch of her posture proclaiming she was born to command.
She swept her gaze over our group, looking at each of us in turn.
Vine with his manic grin, Corson still slick with blood and brimming with Wrath.
Her silent judgment took in Mex, bristling with fury and Mal, still looming in silent observation.
Her gaze drifted to Delilah, to her hands still faintly glowing with magic and crusted with blood.
At last, her eyes found mine, cool and imperious, though I could see the tremor she tried to hide in the set of her mouth.
“Great Marquis Leraje,” she said formally, inclining her head the barest amount.
“It seems I have misjudged you.” Vine choked out a laugh, and Genevieve pursed her lips, but didn’t acknowledge him.
“You came to my home in good faith, and I responded with scorn and callousness. For that I am—” she paused, her throat tight as each syllable dragged over her tongue like broken glass. “Sorry.”
“You threatened the life of my mate,” I ground out, noting the way that Genevieve licked her dry lips, though she didn’t lower her gaze. “I should remove your fangs before I remove your head.”
“Oui. That was regrettable,” was all she offered.
Around us, shouts began to ring out, voices calling from beyond my wall of shadows as the vampires of Genevieve’s nest began to search for their wayward queen.
Our time was nearly up.
“Archer.” Delilah looked up at me, her eyes pleading, and I shook my head at my own soft-heartedness.
This woman unmade me in every way.
“As much as I’d like to dole out punishments, this is not my region,” I said, rising to my full height and spreading my wings wide again. “In matters this egregious, I will defer to Duchess Murmur for judgment.”
Genevieve’s eyes snapped to Mex, her chin showing only the slightest wobble as she waited.
Mex, for her part, was overly dramatic, tapping one finger on her chin as she pretended to contemplate the queen’s fate.
Finally, she blew out a dramatic breath, before replying, “You and I will discuss the penalty for your actions at a later date, your majesty.” Genevieve’s shoulders sank, and I couldn’t tell if the gesture was relief or disappointment that she’d have to wait to learn how Mex planned to handle her.
From the way Mex was eyeing the beautiful queen, she may enjoy her punishment more than she would have if I were the one administering it.
“For now,” Mex continued, her voice firm. “I believe there was an item that Archer came here to find. Don’t you think he should have it?”
Genevieve frowned, a small wrinkle appearing on her doll-like face as one pale hand rose to the black diamond that hung heavy at her throat, the infamous relic glinting like frozen midnight.
Delilah gripped my arm tightly, her breath catching now that actually having the diamond in her possession finally seemed plausible. I could feel the effect it was having on her through the bond, how hard she was fighting not to give in to the sway of the sins and vices embodied by the diamond.
With slow, deliberate grace, Genevieve unclasped the necklace. The stone swung from her fingers like a pendulum of doom, its power palpable even from here.
She held it out politely—not quite kneeling, never so debased—but bowing her head just enough to make the gesture undeniable.
“Au revoir, mon trésor,” she whispered softly, a single tear streaking down her cheek as the diamond dangled between us. The words were a benediction, but I had no clue if they were to the diamond itself…or the lost lover who had bestowed it upon her.
“Not to me,” I said, crossing my arms in my refusal to take the infernal thing from her shaking hand. “It belongs to Delilah.”
Genevieve’s eyes lifted, sharp again, the ghost of a sad smile playing on her lips.
“Do not mistake this gift for weakness. I am Genevieve Dubois, daughter of the French court, Vampire Queen of New Orleans. I bend to no one. But gratitude—” she cast a last longing glance at the diamond “—gratitude I will bestow where it is due.”
I could see it cost her dearly, handing over the diamond her lover had given her to another woman.
Her pride was a mask, but the fracture in it showed as clearly as the tear still glistening on her cheek.
Still, she held her tongue, offering the necklace to Delilah even though every inch of her posture screamed she despised the act.
For a moment, Delilah didn’t move, more than a little stunned by the situation. Then, with aching slowness, she replaced Pandora into the pouch at her waist and held out her hand.
“Enjoy it while you can, little witch. Diamonds are fickle lovers. And they cut as deeply as they shine.”