Chapter 43 #3
Magic pulsed in the Dread Ring on her finger in warning, sharpening her reflexes.
As dirty and dark Magic burst from his hands, her two fingers collided with his chest, sending a defensive blast of lightning through him at point-blank range.
She twisted onto her knees and scrambled to her feet as her lightning knocked him backwards.
She clutched her throat as her vision doubled, then tripled beneath the weight of his own attack.
At first, thinking it was a defect in her faltering vision, a great shadow cast over them, blocking what little moonlight drifted through the snow clouds. Mal’s eyes shot up to the sky, his glowing green orbs filled with dissatisfaction.
Maeve looked over her shoulder as a great, black-and-amethyst dragon slammed into the earth with a snarl.
Cracking the ground beneath it. Wind slammed into her, whipping her hair backwards.
Her own heartbeat stilled at the sight of him.
Glorious wings stretched across the open valley as he snarled, violet fire flared behind his teeth.
Enormous black claws sunk into the ground as Reeve crawled towards her, his barbed tail snapping behind him.
He was almost to her—
A pinch of skin on her leg brought a gasp of surprise from her lips. A tingle that dripped through her spine. She looked down to her thigh, where the hilt of the Dread Dagger was buried. It sat splintered through her armor, perfectly centered on the top of her leg.
Her eyes lifted to Mal as the real pain began. His back was tall, his arm still extended from his throw.
Then ice, so cold it burned, set her skin ablaze.
“You shouldn’t get so distracted in the middle of a duel,” said Mal.
Maeve’s arms disappeared from feeling, then her face, then her legs as she stumbled backwards. The only feeling remained deep in her stomach: sorrow. Cosmic night swirled behind her where Reeve’s dragon form had once been. Warm tendrils of Magic wrapped her body, keeping her upright.
Reeve stepped forward from that black twister of night and grabbed her.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered with one arm around her back, pulling her into his chest. Warm steel met her cheek as her head rolled against him.
He never looked down at her. His eyes were set on Mal, but his words were directed at her.
“Why the fuck didn’t you answer me?” He was furious, rage and fear pulsed through him without control.
She fell more into that darkness, shivering in the burning cold, and Reeve’s grip on her tightened as she became limp. Warmth slid through her body, caressing her skin. But it wasn’t enough as the poisoned dagger seemed to sink deeper inside her.
“Look how she clings to you for dear life.” Mal laughed, but he didn’t smile. “You’re welcome.”
“You’ve lost this battle today,” said Reeve, disregarding Mal’s comments. “Run back to your Shadow master now and tell her the Dreaded Dead are ash, and the Senshi chose us.”
Their voices faded in and out as Maeve fought for consciousness.
“There are more Dreaded Dead than you could possibly count,” said Mal, a sneer developing on his sunken face. “How are the Senshi yours still?”
“You miscalculated,” said Reeve. “Assumed. You traded me a sworn blood oath for free Magic.”
“I felt the transfer. It’s not possible you deceived me in such a way.”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” snapped Reeve, his breath quick and his furious temper still present. “I am a fucking God!”
Power rippled from him in all directions at lightning speed, shaking the earth.
A barrier, like the line of Magic that had existed for centuries until recently, slammed up, spitting the ground between them and Mal.
Even in her weakened and collapsing state, she felt the barrier rock across the Black Deep and into the Dark Peaks, once more separating the Dread Lands and Aterna.
Mal surveyed the wall of Magic, and then his eyes fell lazily to Reeve. Then, to the Dread Dagger buried in Maeve’s thigh.
“Hmm,” said Mal. “We’ll see how that Godly power treats you once my Queen is fully restored.”
Maeve’s vision blackened, flickered, and Mal was gone.
“Reeve,” she groaned.
An arm scooped behind her knees, and they Obscured.
She’d barely felt the effects of transportation as Reeve stepped into a hall she’d only visited one time, when her body’s temperature rose dangerously high.
The smell of the lavender waters hit her nose, and hope swelled.
She’d be in them soon, and she could remove the dagger and sink into the soft healing waters.
Without warning, she twisted in Reeve’s arms and vomited.
He continued towards the waters and called for one of the healers.
He stepped them down into one of the pristine baths, carrying Maeve with him as the warm waters began to penetrate her armor, melting into her skin.
He released her legs, letting them sink, and tapped the crystal jewel on her breastplate.
Her armor vanished, and her clothes from earlier reappeared.
The water clung to her skin now, but no relief came.
Reeve positioned himself behind her, holding her against his body with one hand as his other hand found her thigh, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the dagger.
“It hurts,” whimpered Maeve as her whole body shook.
“I know,” said Reeve, brushing his nose against her cheek. “I know, love.”
Her stomach rolled. She’d vomit again at any moment.
Hands she didn’t recognize, voices she didn’t recognize moved before her, rippling the water around her.
“Gods, girl,” said one. “You should be unconscious.”
“Pull it out, High Lord,” instructed another.
Reeve’s hand braced across her front, tightened, then he ripped the Dread Dagger from her body smoothly. The pale waters turned crimson at once. Reeve tossed the dagger out of the waters. Its contact with the tiles of the hall echoed like a song.
“You’re alright,” said Reeve. “Healer Quintern works quickly. Don’t you?”
Quintern looked up at her High Lord and nodded reverently.
Poison surged through her, sticky and heated but piercing like frozen needles. She groaned, wanting so badly to ask them all to please back away, that she felt like she’d vomit again at any moment.
Reeve’s free hand moved to her cheek, tucking cold and clumped hair away from her face. He kissed her neck tenderly as the healer’s hands moved over her thigh.
“The dagger,” began Quintern. “It’s laced with something.”
Hope faded from Maeve as she realized she’d been a fool to think these waters or these hands could heal her. How could she forget what was inscribed on the dagger?
Forever wounded.
“No, no, no,” managed Maeve.
“What?” said Reeve tensely. “What difference does that make?”
“It must heal naturally,” Quintern said quietly. “I can stitch it up, High Lord, and stop the bleeding. But I cannot heal this. That is pure and ancient Dread Magic. It bends the laws of all other Magic.”
Maeve let out a frustrated cry. Reeve gripped her tighter and nuzzled into her neck. She was drenched in sticky sweat, despite the moderate temperature of the ineffective waters and the remaining cold of her hair.
“Would you like to sleep, Maeve?”
She shook her head, terrified to fall into such darkness with such pain coursing through her, threatening death.
“Just through the night,” he murmured into her neck. “I won’t leave your side.”
Promise, she said.
I promise, love.
Okay, she pressed into his mind, and then it was lights out.