Chapter Thirty-Four Blue
Chapter Thirty-Four
Blue
The first crossbow bolt punches through the bark inches from my head, sending splinters into the night air like wooden shrapnel.
I shove Cordelia behind the nearest tree as chaos erupts across the celebration. Costumed dancers scatter in every direction,
their screams cutting through the hypnotic music as black-clad figures emerge from the forest like Death itself stepping from
shadow.
The Crow have come calling.
“How many?” Ash appears at my elbow, his casual linen shirt a stark contrast to the violence unfolding around us.
I count muzzle flashes between the trees, catalog the advancing shapes cutting through the bioluminescent maze like they’ve
done this before. “Twenty. Maybe thirty.”
“Fuck.” Hans materializes on my other side, his medieval knight costume suddenly looking less theatrical and more practical.
The chainmail across his chest could actually stop a blade, and the sword at his hip isn’t a prop. “We are very outnumbered,
Boss.”
Another crossbow bolt shatters the glowing mushroom beside Cordelia’s head, spraying phosphorescent spores across her silver
dress. She doesn’t scream or run like the other civilians. She just crouches lower, waiting for instructions.
“Go! Now!” I shout to her. I turn to Ash, “What about the residents?” I ask, already knowing the answer will complicate everything.
“Dame Gothel’s getting people out through the old logging road,” Ash reports, calm despite the gunfire now echoing through
the trees. “But they’ll need time.”
Time we don’t have. The Crow are advancing in a coordinated pattern, driving people away from the paths that lead back to
town. They’re herding us toward the heart of the clearing where the scattered trees provide cover but no escape routes.
I pull my axe from beneath my coat, the familiar weight settling into my palm like coming home. “How long can we hold them?”
“Long enough,” Hans says, but it seems he’s not fully convinced.
My plague doctor mask lies somewhere in the chaos behind me as I scan the tree line, forgotten the moment the first bolt flew.
The Crow are positioned to cut off every escape route. Professional killers using a magical forest celebration as their hunting
ground.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“There!” Ash points toward a figure stepping into the clearing’s edge. “Brutus.”
Brutus “The Beast” Crow steps into the clearing, and I remember why they call him the Beast. He’s massive—six and a half feet
of muscle and scar tissue wrapped in tactical gear. The man looks ready for war, which makes sense considering the circumstances.
The gunfire stops with the sudden finality of an orchestra conductor dropping his baton. Brutus raises his hand, and every
Crow in the forest freezes in position. Discipline like that comes from years of working together, of trusting absolutely
in your leader’s judgment.
We’re fucked.
“Blue!” Brutus booms across the clearing. “I hear you’ve been redecorating with my people. You need serious fucking help,
my man. I thought I was sadistic but you . . .”
I step away from the tree, axe loose in my grip. “Brutus. Should have known you’d show up eventually.”
“Couldn’t let you have all the fun.” His laugh is exactly as unpleasant as I remember. “But I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
Brutus gestures to his men positioned throughout the forest. “We’ve got you completely surrounded. No way out except through
us, and there’s a lot more of us than there are of you.” He pauses, apparently enjoying his moment of tactical superiority.
“But I’m feeling generous tonight.”
“Generous how?”
“Fair fight. You, me, and whoever wants to dance. No guns.” Brutus pulls a massive machete from his belt, the blade gleaming
in the mushroom light. “Just steel and skill. Old school.”
Hans steps up beside me. “Boss, this is obviously trap.”
“Of course it’s a trap.” I don’t take my eyes off Brutus. “But it’s the only chance we’ve got.”
Ash appears on my other side, and I notice he’s somehow acquired a knife that clearly was designed for killing rather than cake decorating. “What are the terms?”
“Simple,” Brutus calls back. “Last man standing wins. You kill us all, you walk away. We kill you . . .” He shrugs. “Well,
we’ll make it quick. Professional courtesy.”
I consider our options, which is a short mental exercise since we don’t have any. Twenty trained killers versus the three
of us and a forest full of panicking locals. The math isn’t encouraging.
Years of murder sobriety, gone in an instant. But if this buys Saylor and Wren time to get away, if this keeps her alive,
then it’s worth it. Peter asked me to protect his daughter. Hans is willing to die for that promise. The least I can do is
break my sobriety.
“Deal,” I call back.
Brutus grins, the act transforming his scarred face into something genuinely terrifying. He makes another hand signal, and
suddenly every Crow in the forest steps into view. They’re not carrying guns anymore—just blades. The message is clear: They’re
going to carve us apart piece by piece.
“Gentlemen,” I say quietly to Hans and Ash, “it’s been an honor.”
“Likewise, Boss,” Hans replies, testing the weight of his sword.
“Save the eulogies for after we’re dead,” Ash suggests, flipping his knife to a reverse grip. “We might surprise them.”
The first Crow charges across the clearing, screaming like a banshee and swinging a machete in wild arcs that would be impressive
if they weren’t completely uncontrolled. I step inside his reach and bury my axe in his sternum. The metal punches through
bone and gristle, and when I wrench it free, blood arcs across the glowing mushrooms like abstract art.
Then all hell breaks loose.
They come at us from every direction, a wave of black-clad killers with steel in their hands and murder in their eyes. Hans
meets the first one with his sword, the clash of metal on metal ringing across the clearing. Ash moves like liquid shadow,
his knife finding throats and hearts. He’s done this dance many times before.
I lose myself in the rhythm of violence. Duck under a sword thrust, pivot, axe through a neck. Sidestep a machete swing, reverse grip, axe between ribs. Forward, back, spin, chop. Each movement flows into the next with muscle memory built over fifteen years of killing.
A Crow with intricate facial tattoos comes at me with paired knives, spinning them in complex patterns that look impressive
but leave his center exposed. I take his head off with a horizontal swing that sends blood spraying across three nearby mushrooms.
Another one tries to flank me from the left, machete raised high for an overhead chop. I catch his wrist with my free hand,
twist until something snaps, then drive my axe through his ribs. He goes down gurgling, clutching at the wound like he can
hold his life inside.
The clearing has become a charnel house. Bodies in tactical gear sprawl between the glowing fungi, their blood mixing with
phosphorescent spores to create patterns that would be beautiful if they weren’t so horrifying. The air reeks of copper and
shit and the ozone smell that comes from violence done efficiently.
Hans is holding his own near the musicians’ platform, his sword work clean and economical. Every strike finds its target,
every movement serves a purpose. He’s cut down four Crows already, and his chainmail has turned aside two blade strikes that
should have opened him to the spine.
Ash fights like he was born to do it, which maybe he was. The knife in his hand moves like an extension of his will, opening
arteries and puncturing lungs. He’s taken down three Crows without taking a scratch, dancing between their attacks like death
wearing linen.
For a moment, I actually think we might survive this.
We’re outnumbered six to one, but we’re not going down easy. Ash moves like he never left this life behind. Bodies drop around
me, blood feeding the glowing mushrooms until the clearing looks like an abattoir lit by fairy lights.
But they keep coming.
For every Crow we drop, another takes his place. They’re coordinated, patient, willing to take losses to wear us down. Professional
killers who understand that numbers always win in the end.
Ash appears beside me, breathing hard. “We’re making a dent.”
“Not big enough,” I reply.
He’s right though. The clearing is littered with Crow bodies. We’ve cut their numbers in half, but there are still too many. And we’re getting tired.
Time to end this.
I start moving toward Brutus, cutting through the chaos with single-minded purpose. A Crow tries to block my path with twin
blades. I take his arm off at the elbow with one swing, then split his skull with the return stroke.
Another one comes at me from the side, machete raised for a killing blow. I pivot, catch his wrist, and drive my knee into
his elbow. The joint bends backward with a wet snap, and he drops his weapon. My axe opens his throat before he can scream.
Brutus sees me coming and grins, raising his machete in salute. “Blue! Ready for the main event?”
But I can see the fear behind his bravado, the way his eyes dart to the bodies scattered around me. And fucking good. He should
be afraid.
“Let’s dance.”
We circle each other through the carnage, stepping over bodies and around the glowing mushrooms that continue their eternal
pulse of ethereal light. Blood steams in the cool night air, and somewhere in the distance I can hear the clash of steel on
steel as the battle rages on.
Brutus moves faster than his size should allow, the machete whistling through the air in patterns designed to take limbs rather
than just wound. I give ground, letting him commit to his attacks while I read his rhythm.
He’s good. Better than I remember. But he’s also angry, and anger makes people stupid.
His next swing comes in too high, leaving his ribs exposed. I step inside his reach and drive my axe toward his heart, but
he’s already moving, catching my wrist with his free hand. For a moment we’re locked together, struggling for control of our
weapons.