Chapter 44
Westley raised his hands. “Latham, what are you doing here?” he tried to ask calmly.
The water called to him, willing him to react. He stifled the urge, knowing it would only make the situation worse. That’s likely what this scum wanted.
Latham only laughed. “I didn’t obey Solveig’s orders when I loved her. Do you really think I would follow them when I hate her?”
“You don’t hate her, Latham.”
“Fuck you,” he spat.
“West, we need to go,” North said, urging him out the door. Anger was quickly replacing the shock, but Westley let his sister tug him along, despite the urge to rip the Vanir’s throat out with his teeth.
Latham’s smile turned cruel. “HELP! Guards! Help! The Fae have escaped! They murdered the president!”
His shouts carried through the corridors, chasing the Fae down the hall. All around them, doors burst open and the mortals began to call out, taking in the scene. Latham’s plan had worked down to the very last detail.
“Where are all the guards?”
“What’s happened?”
“Why is everyone shouting?!”
“The guards are dead, drowned!”
“Oh god, the president is dead!”
“The Fae killed the president and first lady with his magic!”
“He’s drowned them all!”
“Get them!”
Westley and his sisters raced down the corridors, gaining speed as the mortals chased after them. They were met with more guards, slowing them down. Westley smashed his broomstick against their helmets, killing in one blow.
He hit one so hard the stick broke in two. Taking a piece in each hand, he wielded them like dual swords—the way Solveig had taught him.
The wood splintered in his grip as he jabbed and impaled. The impact whittled them down to nothing more than toothpicks, forcing him to toss them aside, resorting to hand-to-hand combat against the swarm.
They managed to break through a group of about fifteen guards as they turned down another identical stone hallway. Doors at the end of the hall shuddered and shook, failing to hold back the battering rams trying to force their way through.
Shit. They were blocked.
His sisters stood beside him, determined expressions on both of their faces. He wished he had Solveig’s ability to loosen their magic. Westley took a moment to gather the water from the hall and bring it rushing towards them.
The door burst open right before Westley sent a wave, stopping just short of crashing down on Noren, Viggo, and Brenna.
“There you are!” Brenna exclaimed. Westley sent the wall of water away, running to embrace his friends.
“Thank the gods you’re all okay,” Noren said with a relieved laugh, gripping Easta in a tight hold.
“We can’t seem to find our way out—” Easta was saying, tucked under Noren’s arm.
Brenna interrupted her. “We found it. We were coming back to find you.”
Heavy footsteps came from down the corridor behind them. More guards. The Fae raced away, Noren leading them down a dark hall. Sunlight blazed in Westley’s eyes as they made their way through the entrance only to find themselves surrounded by the mortal guard.
There had to be at least fifty, and Westley didn’t know what kind of magic they held. Who knew what Ragnvald had given them.
Hey, Solveig? he called out, trying to discreetly gather water around him. I could really use your help.
What do you need? she answered immediately.
As much magic as you can spare without burning yourself out. He flashed everything in front of her.
Fucking Latham, she hissed. Her rage was a clap of thunder in his head.
Do I have your permission to kill him if I see him again?
No.
Westley smiled at the venom in her voice, gathering the power she sent. He came alive when her magic reunited with his.
“I can get us out of here,” Westley said under his breath.
“And just how do you plan to do that?” Noren asked.
With this, Solveig said in his mind, sending another wave through him, light surging out of his hands. The blast of magic burned a hole in the cement in front of them, causing the front line of guards to take a step back.
Solveig and Westley worked together, throwing light and water, swirling them together as they made a tunnel through the guards.
The goal was escape, no matter the cost. Westley just had to get to the ship.
There was some odd magic going on here. Guards faded out of existence before appearing in a different spot. It was pandemonium as the six Fae fought their way through the disappearing mortals, constantly fending off advances from all sides.
Solveig let out a growl of frustration in his mind and sent a huge blast of light through him. She chanted a spell, a hum in the back of Westley’s thoughts filling him with more and more power. The dark bands on his magic loosened further as the sea came into view.
Almost there, he told Solveig.
He was about to celebrate when an ear-splitting shriek immobilized him. Westley turned to find Latham, soaking wet, cut and bruised, eyes frenzied. The witch spat a mouthful of blood on the ground as he held Easta to his body, sword at her throat.
“Latham?” Noren asked hesitantly, his face draining of colour.
“Release her,” Westley entreated, slowly raising his hands. He didn’t know if he could wield their magic faster than Latham’s blade.
Latham’s bloody mouth twisted into a sneer. “I will release her if you surrender yourself.”
Like Hel you will, Solveig commanded. Westley ignored her.
“I’m not going to do that, Latham. And you are not going to kill a Fae princess—the granddaughter of Ragnvald.”
“You know nothing of your grandfather. He doesn’t care for you,” Latham spat.
“Oh, I’m well aware of that fact,” Westley said, relaxing his posture as Solveig reluctantly held their magic at bay, waiting to strike. It was crucial they stay calm, but their combined bloodlust for Latham was getting out of control.
“Do not condescend to me.” Latham held Easta tighter, a trickle of blood leaking down her neck. Noren stepped forward, his shoulders tensing as a snarl rumbled through him.
Westley locked eyes with his sister and had to hold in a laugh. Latham was too preoccupied by Westley to see that Easta had managed to dislodge one of his daggers. Before he could react, Easta stabbed him in the thigh, causing him to drop her, yelping in pain.
Solveig used the distraction to send a blast of her magic through Westley, binding Latham’s hands and feet with light.
Bring him to me, she ordered.
Westley obliged, sending an image of him bowing. Anything else you’d like, General?
When she didn’t laugh or make a snarky comment, alarm vibrated through him.
Solveig?
I’m fine, she said weakly.
I told you not to burn yourself out.
I don’t take orders from you.
Stubborn witch.
Impudent prince.
Westley chuckled as Solveig faded from his mind. He was worried, but he had to get back to the ship. She’d be okay.
Solveig’s light faded from Latham’s hands as soon as they physically bound him. Viggo threw the traitorous witch over his shoulder, the stab wound on his leg leaving a trail of blood behind them.
The mortals had recovered from the attack and were chasing after them. The ground shuddered with their footfalls. Shots fired from their weapons, narrowly missing them.
“At least their aim is terrible,” Brenna joked as she fell into a run beside them. Westley threw her a smile, about to retort when her eyes widened. As if in slow motion, she looked down at the blood blooming across her chest, seeping through her clothing.
“West . . .” Her voice was hushed as she fell to the ground. The others carried on without noticing, but Westley dropped to his knees in front of her.
“Brenna, hold on,” he ordered, panic flooding him. He tried to grab her wrist, prepared to throw her over his shoulder, but she shook her head, collapsing into his arms instead.
She looked up with unseeing eyes as the blood poured from her wound. It must have hit her heart.
Her laboured breathing intensified as the last words left her lips on a gargled breath. “You will make an excellent king.”
“No, Brenna, no.” He bowed his head over her lifeless body. The mortals were gaining. He didn’t have time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He scooped her up, unable to leave her body behind, and raced to the others, their faces ashen as they took in who he held in his arms.
They clambered onto their ship, rousing their crew. His head felt like it was underwater, and for once, he hated the suffocating sensation. Westley sent a giant wave onto the mortals’ port, sending the ship flying out to sea.
He thought they were beyond reach until the mortals began lining up. They finally found out what their strange weapons did as chunks of metal came flying towards them, putting holes in their ship and crew.
“GET DOWN!” Westley bellowed as more loud bangs sounded, the mortals firing more and more of their weapons. The weapons were powerful, but with Westley on the sea they had no idea what he was capable of, even without his full power.
When he stood, he was not Prince Westley of Idavoll. He was Aegir, god of the seas.
He raised his hands in the air and the sea answered his beckoning call.