Chapter 57 | Sephania
Sephania
Jinneth drops in a free-fall, shrieking, disappearing from my sight past the edge of Sutlis Spire’s roof.
I hold my breath, eyes bulging, and Skar growls behind me. He changes the trajectory of his shadowgate and turns it into a many-headed hydra of black tendrils that shoot across the sky, dipping over the edge of the roof.
Seconds later, Skar grunts with a great effort, lifts his hands in a flurry, and Jinneth’s large body careens through the sky the opposite direction, flying up and arcing back over toward the roof.
Aramastun, still levitated off the rooftop, quirks his brow. “Fascinating. Once might say that’s a better power than these wings . . .”
I run forward as if I’m going to catch my mother before she plummets to the concrete.
But she’s at least twenty feet up and Skar’s shadows look uncontrollable at this point after expending so much energy to catch Jinneth.
She’s going to crash much harder than I can take on, and it’s going to mean many broken bones, if not outright death.
Garroway, Lukain, and Vallan charge toward me, while Skar stays stationary to try and weave the shadows like a wizard.
Aramastun abruptly flies toward me, darting forward with a roar faster than I can blink.
I duck on instinct, putting my hands up and sliding to avoid him—
Which allows Skartovius to utilize my free-standing shadow and create a small portal out of it with his off-hand. He waves wildly and plops Jinneth down next to me from twenty feet up—
Directly into the portal.
I gasp in shock at the rush of air around me, glancing around wildly, not finding Aramastun or Jinneth anywhere.
“. . . A better power than these wings . . . if you don’t know how to use them.” Aramastun’s voice from faraway.
“Ah. Fuck.” Skar’s voice.
I twist around.
Aramastun Wyvox has appeared behind Skartovius, in his shadow, directly behind where the shadowwalker brought Jinneth as the exit for his portal.
Skar hasn’t even turned around before muttering the words, because he doesn’t need to. He can feel the Night Judge’s looming presence.
Spinning like a specter, Skartovius swishes one hand, turns in one fluid motion—batting Jinneth aside so she’s no longer sandwiched between the vampires, throwing her ten feet across the roof—
As Aramastun impales the nobleblood through the chest with his greatsword.
“NO!” I scream. My knees buckle.
Aramastun snarls in Skar’s ear as he lifts him off the ground with the greatsword. Blood sprays from the cavernous wound at my mates’ back. “Things would have been so much simpler if you’d just handed over your manor peacefully, Lord Ashfen. And the Loreblood girl.”
“One . . . I could do,” Skar croaks, spitting up blood. “The other? Impossible.”
I don’t know how that sword missed Skartovius’ heart, it looks so fucking wide and menacing. But my mate is still throwing taunts and that’s all I need to hear to rip myself into action.
I turn heel and charge toward them, screaming even louder. My mother is on her side away from the conflict, groaning, unmoving, but safe for the moment. My vision tunnels as I focus entirely on the winged monster and my next ten steps.
My other mates have already doubled back and fall on him together.
Aramastun slides Skartovius off his sword, slashing blood at my mates in a wide arc that keeps them at bay.
Garroway ducks under the swing, somersaults, and comes up with his daggers. He sees the opening, calling out ruthlessly, sliding into Aramastun’s guard.
We’ve had a bit of an upgrade since the Faith Ward.
With so much silver at our disposal—stolen handily from the North Mines—and so much Silverblood already circulating, we decided to hand some of that loot over to our resident smith in the Firehold.
He’s no Vanison Shirin, but he managed to craft weapons out of the soft metal.
Now Garroway is shoving two silver daggers into the demonic bloodsucker’s torso, voicing his triumph at the same time—“Ha!”
Aramastun doesn’t light up like a dry tree in summer.
He doesn’t catch fire at all. The malleable silver daggers snap after the first inch of penetration, and now it’s Garroway’s turn to voice a muttering, “Shit,” before Aramastun slams the hilt of his sword again that beautiful bald head and cracks it open.
Garro collapses on weak legs, wobbling to his knees.
“Who is the real silverblood, hmm?” Aramastun taunts, flapping his wings.
Of course, it’s as Imis said. The demonic blood inside the Night Judge is tinged with silver. That’s what she meant—rather than fighting against it, he fights with it. It’s part of Aramastun’s lineage, and drinking my Loreblood has awoken that bloodline power.
So, great, now we have an ancient winged vampire lord who is impervious to silver, my strongest mate impaled and bleeding very rapidly on his back, and a roguish dhampir mate with his head cracked open like an overripe fruit, swaying in place.
The battle is quickly slipping through our hands, and I haven’t even swung a sword at the bastard yet, much less reached him.
Vallan Stellos is next in line. Seeing his brother-in-arms and cub fall in rapid succession ignites his bloodrage immediately. His roar is incensed and hideous as he charges over Skar, swinging his war-axe with all his force behind it.
CLANG—
The sound of his axe meeting Aramastun’s greatsword is the loudest clashing of steel I’ve ever heard. It’s such a powerful blow that my ears ring, Vallan slides back on his heels, and even Aramastun is pushed back in the air on his wings from the sheer force blast.
They come at each other again, waving their weapons in a blurring fashion, in a way I could never keep up with as a mere human.
Vallan stands tall, the only one of my mates it seems who can equal the Night Judge in terms of pure stature and strength. Aramastun flies around him, hovering a few feet off the ground, his leathery wings pumping endlessly.
Lukain Pierken runs up with his father’s silver saber, flanking the demon lord. Unlike Garroway’s newly made silver daggers, Heskel Angul’s sword was crafted in antiquity with a much purer process, and it doesn’t break on contact. It slashes into Aramastun’s side and makes him hiss in anger.
Hope leaps in my chest as I reach them, finally seeing my mates score our first hit.
I avoid Aramastun’s left wing, watch as his right one flips out and slams into Lukain, sending him flying across the rooftop. All the while, Vallan roars and batters his axe against Aramastun’s sword, with the sounds unholy this close to my ears.
I swipe two quick slashes at Aramastun and he peels sideways, flying away from me and making me whoosh against air. It’s infuriating because I’ve never sparred against an enemy with fucking wings.
His whip cracks and snaps out at me, forcing me to roll to my side as it lashes against the rooftop. When I jump to my feet, he brings it sideways and sweeps my legs out from under me.
I fall hard on my back, feeling the crunch of my tailbone and wincing. Putting the pain aside, I stand again, the world blurring in front of me.
Lukain is back at it, rushing over, trying everything he can to distract the flying fiend with his saber so Vallan can get a good blow on him.
They sidestep and weave, desperately trying to get behind Aramastun—or at least offset him on either side—but his wings make it impossible. Even with three of us.
I slide back from another crack of his thorny whip, not wanting to find that thing squeezing around my neck with the spikes digging into my flesh.
Movement out the corner of my eye distracts me for a mere moment, leaving Vallan and Lukain to the frenzied melee.
A small figure has gained the steps onto the rooftop.
She’s half the size of the monolithic vampires up here, and my jaw drops at the sight of her.
She’s not wearing her gold dress anymore, either, opting for tight black leathers that make her thin as a broomstick and about as useful as one given the situation.
“Palacia!” I hiss as she rushes over to my side.
Her face is placid, unimpressed. Even at the sight of a demonic vampire flying through the air, wreaking havoc on my mates. Mother on her side, Skar in a pool of his own blood, Garroway with a traumatic head wound.
Placid. Unimpressed.
“How in all that’s True are you up here?!” I wheeze. My arms burn from the intense fight, and my legs are starting to ache.
Vampires can go on forever. Humans can’t. In fact, the little person right next to me has shown me that firsthand.
She has a small sword in her grip that’s practically a twig. She runs a palm over her sickly green-yellow hair and surveys the scene. “Came over after I put Rirth to sleep.”
“But how? There’s more than ten stories in this place, probably roving with judgemen!”
I suppose this isn’t the best time for the interview. I’m just too stunned.
“Skartovius kept the Zefyra shadow portal open right under here.” She shrugs. “I want to help. She was startled to find me in her shadow. I think I scared her.”
“We did too.” I love that she wants to help. Sadly, I can only see how she’d get in the way. “No offense, Pala? You can fuck but you can’t fight. This isn’t—”
“You don’t understand, Seph. My bloodline powers came alive after drinking from your blood. Just like every other vampire who’s tasted you.”
I cringe. Hearing Palacia talk about tasting me, knowing what we’ve been through . . . it’s uncomfortable. “What . . . what does that mean?”
“It’s how I killed Liolen. Get me an opening and I’ll show you.”
My eyes bulge. “O-Okay.”
How can I argue with that? Palacia has shocked me in practically every way, every time. I’m not going to doubt the little goblin has some tricks up her sleeve.
Feeling indescribably safer with the vampirex up here, I rush back into the fray. Vallan is getting no closer to landing a hit on Aramastun. Lukain is trying his hardest, using every stratagem in his arsenal, but is also falling short.