Chapter 10
There were few emotions Azriel had grown accustomed to more than rage.
Sorrow pecked at him often, a constant reminder of his friend’s permanent absence and his wife’s betrayal—if he was so bold as to call it that.
Overwhelming happiness and love warmed him when he was able to settle into the arms of the only woman he could ever again desire.
Even the rare comfort of peace in those moments had grown to be something to which he could become accustomed.
Yet it was pure, unadulterated wrath that remained the one part of him that he not only couldn’t shake but didn’t want to leave behind. It fueled him, keeping him moving even when his world tilted dangerously on its axis.
And in that moment, he was thankful for it, for all Azriel felt as he took another step into the room where his wife stood, her face bearing a blackened bruise from a vile man and clutching a quilt as the only thing that could prevent her from contracting aegrisolis.
Fiery loathing built in his veins with every breath he took, sharpening his vision even as the dregs of Phulan’s potions made the room swim.
A thunderous roar rent through the air, and it wasn’t until Azriel had shoved Nikolai Jensen back with a mighty push of his blade that he realized that the sound came from him, not Razer.
The armored soldier stumbled back, his eyes widening with shock at the strength that nearly caused his knees to buckle.
Before either of them could rush to engage once more, guards spilled in from the halls and flooded the drawing room.
“Protect your King!” Nikolai cried, taking a step back to stand beside the supine Loren.
Familiar heat scorched Azriel’s back as he stalked forward, cutting through the guards who swarmed and encircled their King, each of them shouting and cursing at what they saw behind him.
Why Loren was unmoving on the floor, he had no idea.
Nor did he care. It would only make it easier to kill the bastard.
“Is that a dragon?” someone called from amidst the din.
“Gods!” another cried, “Kill it!”
The sound of glass shattering told Azriel all he needed to know about what Razer did without looking back. The guards in the room and the soldiers below shouted in alarm, and then a midnight blue maw snapped through the broken balcony doors.
Pain that didn’t belong to him lanced through Azriel’s lower legs a moment later. Razer shrieked, his face disappearing as quickly as it’d come as he turned to tend to whatever was happening outside.
“Keep your distance,” Azriel advised, “until we’re ready to go.”
Razer huffed. “Happily.”
The dragon had taken on enough injuries during their fight against Sehrox and Ehrun.
He had yet to fully recover from them, his usually armored belly missing scales where the larger dragon’s claws had raked through them.
Such gaps in his natural defenses were dangerous when the soldiers were prepared with weapons that were sure to terrorize beasts of his size.
In unison with the familiar swooping sensation in Azriel’s stomach that told him Razer was flying away, a searing pain struck in his shoulder.
At first, he assumed someone had hit the dragon as he took flight.
Then warmth gushed down his side, and his grip wavered on his sword, nearly causing him to drop it.
Glancing down, he found a large bolt sticking out of both ends of his dominant shoulder.
Using his wound as a distraction, the nearest soldier lunged, blade aimed for his chest. Azriel shifted and grunted as the point of the sword dug into his other arm deep enough to nick bone. No armor meant no real way to keep himself protected—Kall would be chiding him for his lack of preparation.
Kall should be chiding him…
With one hand, Azriel hefted his sword up to keep fighting. With the other, he found the fletched end of the bolt and snapped it off. He couldn’t reach the other half and therefore left it in place. A risk. If someone yanked it free, the amount of blood he’d lose could be detrimental.
Still, he moved. The room swayed beneath his feet, though the soldiers he fought didn’t seem to notice the way the floor moved like waves.
As such, Azriel put too much focus on each of his unsteady steps, pulling his attention away from the fight at hand.
He blinked hard in a desperate attempt to clear his mind to no avail.
Faces blurred. Opponents doubled. Swords struck from every which angle.
Then out of nowhere, Azriel found himself on his back. Pain ricocheted through his shoulder as the bolt was forced backwards into the wound already there, and a surge of panic had him grabbing a sword by the blade to keep it from piercing his neck.
“On your feet, my King,” said a deep voice in the dhemon language before several cries rang out around the room.
On either side of him, dhemons stepped into view, hacking their way through the soldiers.
They moved with near-synchronization and practiced grace.
Step. Slash. Step. Parry. Step. Stab. In their wake, Azriel could breathe.
With the vampire soldiers pushed back, he shoved himself up, head still spinning.
“Up, Vhaltrin,” said the voice again, now a mixture of common and dhemonic, as an arm hooked under his less-injured arm and pulled him to his feet.
Azriel lifted his unfocused eyes to find Whelan studying him, taking in every injury he had already incurred in such a short period of time. Guilt and relief poured forth in a horrible, confusing combination of feelings.
Whelan had come despite Azriel’s monstrosities.
“Lhienska lhon, Rholki.” They were the only words Azriel could think to say. Now was not the time for apologies. Now was the time to act—and to ensure Whelan, who risked his life and that of his bondheart, made it back to Madan.
But Whelan didn’t reply. Instead, he held firm to Azriel’s arm and dragged him to the side, swinging his sword to block a soldier who’d broken through the dhemons’ walls. With a silent nod to Azriel, Whelan pushed forward, tearing through two vampires in mere seconds.
Another bolt whizzed by Azriel’s ear, clipping the edge. More blood dribbled down his neck as he turned in his haze in search of her. His wife.
Ariadne stood before her friends, the blanket she’d held moments ago now discarded as she instead wielded a sword larger than she was accustomed to.
Wearing a dress in which she could not move properly, her face twisted in frustration.
Yet when a soldier tried to grab for her—no doubt an attempt to drag her from the fray—she dropped the blade on his outstretched arm with such force, the entire limb thudded to the floor, accompanied by an ear-shattering scream.
“Lhuka!” Azriel shouted above the din in the dhemon language, finally recognizing the dhemon nearest to the women. “Get them out of here!”
Without question, the dhemon shifted his attention to Ariadne, Camilla, and Revelie. He struck a soldier square in the face with his fist, then followed with his blade to the vampire’s neck, clearing his path to them.
Though her friends looked at Lhuka with wide, uncertain eyes, Ariadne’s lips moved with words Azriel couldn’t make out before shoving Revelie forward, still gripping her quilt with a trembling hand.
In one swift motion, Lhuka lowered himself just enough to scoop the Caersan onto his shoulder.
Revelie squeezed her eyes closed as he carried her to a broken window and launched himself from the balcony.
A moment later, the silhouette of Nix bearing his riders disappeared into the lightening sky.
“We need to get out of here,” Whelan advised through the vinculum. “They keep coming—we’re outnumbered.”
Gritting his teeth, Azriel turned back into the chaos, and it was in that moment, at the center of the storm, that Loren Gard rose to his feet.
A nasty bruise spread out from a broken nose, sending a jolt of pride through him at the thought of Ariadne delivering the blow. But it was he who wanted Loren’s head.
“Gavrhil, get Camilla,” Azriel commanded, then grit his teeth as he moved through the pain of the bolt still lodged in his shoulder.
But Gavrhil took two steps in the appointed direction before his eyes flew wide in shock.
For the second time in a fortnight, all the air was punched from Azriel’s lungs in the worst way. He swung around to take on Gavrhil’s attacker, only to find the dhemon unharmed. A scratch ran down his cheek—that was all.
Then a horrible, agonizing roar echoed from outside, bringing the fighting in the drawing room to a halt as everyone turned to see a massive claw on the balcony ledge being ripped down. Shouts of excitement rose from outside as another shriek ripped through the air.
“Rhun!” Gavrhil screamed and stumbled toward the open door.
Azriel watched in mute shock as his friend’s knees hit the floor. “Razer—”
“They’re killing him,” Razer confirmed, his words breaking around the pain and sorrow. “A chain net and—”
Killing him. Rhun. A dragon. Loren had done it—he’d figured out a way to kill their greatest assets.
Loren laughed, and when Azriel rounded on him, he found him watching Gavrhil dying on the floor with no visible wounds. The bastard laughed, and now he knew that he could put an end to them all so much easier by targeting the dragons’ bondhearts.
Pure agony put them all in danger. Azriel struggled to breathe, and he could only imagine what that meant for Whelan, in the midst of all those soldiers.
“Get out of here,” Azriel forced through the vinculum to his brother’s mate. “I’ll get them out safe.”
“You can barely stand on your own,” Whelan snapped, refocusing on the battle despite the ripples of Rhun’s death throws choking them through the bond.