28. Hoping Never to Return
Hoping Never to Return
Alobaz’s guard had been down. He’d sensed no danger. He hadn’t heard her or scented her or otherwise felt her—when he damn well should have.
It was the fog, he guessed—Mauldrene, the island, the abyss, or all of them combined, working together to allow her to get to him.
Mauldrene made no secret of her dislike for the new host of her house.
When the temptress’ blade missed its mark, instead of removing it and trying again, she sank to her knees beside him and leaned all her weight into the blade in an attempt to tilt it upward that last inch to stab his heart.
But Alobaz’s moment of shock had passed. The instincts he’d honed over more battles than any one man should ever have to wage kicked in. He knocked her hand away from her dagger as he called, “Drion!”
Then he shoved her to the ground.
Only, she barely faltered. She leapt to her feet and lunged for his sword.
He reached it first because he was closer. He couldn’t remove the knife in his chest yet.
She pounced, slamming a fist into the inside of his arm, the one that held the sword, ensuring he couldn’t bring it up to threaten her. He held on tightly so he wouldn’t drop it.
She whirled into him. With her ass pressed to his groin, she elbowed the hilt of the blade in his chest.
His scream startled both of them—but Fuerindamn that hurt!
The cry was loud enough to bring his soldiers running. Drion would arrive faster.
It still might not be fast enough.
She was a tontee. Possessed by a spirit bound for the Etherlands or the Igneuslands who’d found the way to remain behind. She must have several spirits controlling her, fueling her rage, her reactions, her speed.
Even for a s?nglure, this was too much.
Too good.
When she gripped the hilt with both hands, preparing to cleave his heart in two no doubt, he sliced—right to left—along that tantalizing strip of bare skin at her waist.
Left to right, he sliced deeper.
She faltered but didn’t take her eyes off him, or her hands off her dagger.
She pressed upward on the blade, cutting through sinew and muscle, evading bone.
But her grip weakened. Alobaz shoved her backward. She stumbled, tripped on her skirts, and fell. She splayed on the ground while blood like a geyser pumped from her gut.
Careful to keep the dagger in his chest from her reach, Alobaz leaned over her so he could see through the fog. Her hands didn’t seek to staunch the wound. She had to know it was futile. There was no stopping her death.
She’d die.
And then come back to life.
Unless he drained her blood from her body and took her head too.
But it was such a beautiful head. Such a beautiful body.
She blinked as if in a daze, staring up into the mist. She wore her hair in braids, and the plaits looked like more fallen branches. Her arms and legs were sprawled out as if in a death pose.
A brilliant smile warmed her paling face. As a soldier, Alobaz recognized it. He’d seen it hundreds of times on the felled. This temptress, this wicked enchantress was leaving this world for the next, hoping never to return.
She was welcoming death.