31. The Long Night #2
Gathering the Shadow’s power in our palms, I formed it into a ball of roiling light and shadow.
It might not do much against this demigod, but I had to try.
With a grunt, we hurled the mass of concentrated power toward the huathe.
It hit him in the center of his back—right between his wings—making him lurched forward into the cut-stone mantel of the hearth.
His head bounced off the carved granite, and he muttered a dark curse as he turned in our direction.
I already had another ball of power ready and waiting.
This one was a little smaller than the first. I wasn’t used to expending our magic this quickly, and my strength was already waning.
The huathe barely moved when this one struck him in the chest.
This isn’t working, I said to the Shadow. I’m not strong enough. The huathe stalked forward, burning eyes roving the open space around the desk.
She moved our legs, ferrying us back in between the bookshelves. My skirts swished loudly with the movement, and the huathe made that strange clicking sound again. What could we do? Our powers were meant to fight monsters, not veritable gods.
I’m trying to think. And for the first time since she’d come to me, the Shadow sounded utterly helpless.
My resolve hardened at the sound. She was an ancient, powerful being, and I was her vessel. We were not helpless.
The swords in the upper sitting room, I said. She seemed to understand and settled. If this was to be our end, we would not go down without a fight. We need a weapon.
How about this?
The overwhelming force of the strange voice in my mind nearly had me gasping out loud. But the cold steel being pressed into our palm made me remember myself, and I swallowed the sound down. The scent of leather and ash filled our nose. His heat was so intense, sweat slid down our neck and back.
The Shadow turned our head. Orange light seeped above Trygg’s collar, the smoky silver of his eyes glowing brightly in the dark. Underneath his gauntlets, I knew I’d find black scales covering his arms.
With that playful smirk I’d become accustomed to, Trygg raised a taloned finger to his lips. How he’d managed to enter the library without making a sound, I didn’t know. But the weight of his sword in our hand was a cold comfort as I turned back toward the huathe .
Again, Trygg’s voice sounded in my head, at once familiar but completely foreign at the same time. Arlbright is with the Priestess. She’s alright.
How is this possible? I asked tremulously. The Shadow kept her attention outward, but her worry echoed in my mind. Worry that Trygg might be able to sense I wasn’t the only one in this body.
I don’t know, he answered, stepping smoothly down the aisle to our left. Even with our advanced hearing, he made no sound. I’m not about to question it. This feels like the skipta. Can you talk with Arlbright too?
I didn’t know where to begin figuring out the answer to that question. And there wasn’t any time to explain how I’d even made this connection with Trygg in the first place. Not that I really understood it myself. I’d simply followed the anchor in my gut and hoped for the best.
Don’t think so, was all I said. I took a few steps after him when the huathe began ripping apart a bookcase in search of us. The sound of splintering wood and paper ripping covered our steps and the swish of my skirts.
Lucky me. He laughed, a dark, sensual sound.
A rush of air approached from the other side of the library.
I halted our steps at the end of the aisle where it opened to the center, catching a glimpse of Corbyn kneeling on the other side of the desk.
His eyes—flaming gold and obsidian—burned into me as he peered across the space. But Trygg was nowhere to be found.
Don’t move, he said sharply, he’s right around the corner.
And where are you? I tightened our grip on the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. The Shadow bristled against me, her anxiety at being unable to speak bordering on panic. I tried to send her as much reassurance as I could.
Feathers rustled directly to our left, and the unmistakable sound of that clicking pierced my ears.
“Oh,” the huathe drawled, “now that isn’t fair, little thief. I didn’t bring any friends to help me, did I?”
A deep rumble shook the floor, vibrating up our legs. The huathe drew in a whistling breath, releasing it in a single, terrible word.
“ Stoeva. ”
The rumbling faded into deafening silence. Panic took hold of our limbs, paralyzing us.
No, I breathed, feeling the Shadow tremble. Trygg, are you alright? Where are you? If this was the word Corbyn spoke of, if they were defenseless against the huathe ?—
Trygg’s amusement was a warm light in our chest as he answered me. I’m right where I need to be.
The shrieking that suddenly filled our ears almost made me scream as well.
It was like a thousand nails being raked across a stone wall, and so loud I couldn’t hear my own thoughts.
The Shadow stumbled forward and braced our hands against our ears.
As she did, I caught sight of the huathe sprawled across the floor, back arched and one golden wing beating wildly as he thrashed.
Trygg held the huathe’s other wing in his scaled hands, dripping dark gold blood all over the patterned carpet. He flexed his own wings, gazing intently at the creature at his feet.
The word… it didn’t work.
Corbyn appeared at our side in an instant, and I stole a momentary glance at him. Red light cascaded from his collar and his eyes shone like pits of golden flame. Crimson talons, glittering like his wings, gripped his sword so hard it was like to shatter.
“He’s all yours, my lady,” Trygg said darkly, and his presence faded from the anchor line between us.
The Shadow released a pent-up breath, her power guttering in response.
“My wing,” the huathe moaned pitifully. “You bastard !” He hissed in pain, squirming in his own blood. “The word… the word… it didn’t…”
Trygg gazed at him mercilessly, a vicious gleam in his silver eyes. “Can’t have you flying off without paying for your crimes, now can we? I believe my lady has some questions for you in that regard.” He quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Where!” the huathe screamed. “Where is she!” He thrashed wildly, splattering the pool of blood beneath him. The glowing, white orbs of his eyes scanned the space around him, but never fell on us.
The two dragons exchanged a look.
I’m going to pull you back now, I said to the Shadow. I doubt he’s much of a danger in this sorry state. As if in response, the huathe whimpered pathetically again, clawing at the floor and shredding into the carpet.
As you wish, she replied, deflating.
I want my face to be the last thing this bastard sees. My eyes slammed shut as I willed the darkthread to knit back together, drawing the Shadow’s essence back inside. As she reformed in the confines of my mind, I regained full control of my body.
My Sight faded, the room once again plunged into crushing darkness. The only light to be seen came from the dragons’ glowing chests and eyes. I shot Trygg a look. With a nod, a ball of rippling flame appeared in his hand, casting a sea of light over the four of us.
Hefting Trygg’s sword up, I stepped forward, my skirts dragging through the dark gold blood soaking the floor.
The huathe’s eyes snapped to me as his black-clad chest heaved rapidly.
From the light shining in Trygg’s palm, I could make out more of his features, and a chill snaked its way down my spine.
His eyes were nothing more than shining white orbs, devoid of pupils or anything that might make him look vaguely human.
More golden feathers ringed his face, covering his forehead, cheeks, and jaw.
His skin was like burnished gold, and his hooked nose melded into a wickedly sharp beak where his mouth should have been.
As I stepped closer, he reached toward me with talon-tipped fingers.
“Erling bitch !” he wailed, arching his back as another ragged scream ripped from his throat.
Corbyn made to move forward, and I raised the sword in my hand to block him. Trygg, too, looked like he wanted to hurl some verbal jab at the huathe, but a look from me silenced him.
Swinging the weapon in front of me, I rested its point at the base of the huathe’s feathered throat. A rumbling chirp vibrated in his chest, running up the blade into my hand. The Shadow snarled in response and recoiled as his burning eyes settled on my face.
A thousand questions raced through my head. But there was really only one that would settle the raging fury threatening to take control of my hand.
“Why?”
The word echoed loudly, some unseen force projecting it to every nook and corner of the library. The huathe’s avian face twisted in pain.
His voice was ragged from his screaming when he said, “ Ir hon, andask í tví er hon. ”
‘ She is; therefore, she dies. ’ The only thing he’d said the night my mother died.
“That doesn’t mean anything, you fucking bastard!” I shouted, unable to control myself as I pressed the point of Trygg’s blade against his throat. Golden blood welled beneath it, spilling over his feathered neck in tiny rivers.
Asvoria, the Shadow rasped, I beg you, stay calm.
You’re always telling me to stay calm, I growled back, ignoring the huathe’s pathetic whimpering as I dug the blade in further. And I’ve had enough of it.
“What do you want from me?” I seethed at him, and the darkthread flickered in response.
My own fury, the Shadow’s, Trygg’s—it didn’t matter.
All I could think of was my mother’s face, frozen in death as I held her in my arms. Her blood coating my hands and clothes.
My heart, shattering into a thousand pieces at realizing I would never hear her voice again—never see her smile or feel her embrace.
The huathe drew in a wet, stuttering breath. “He wants you,” he croaked. “It will only get worse. Go to him before anyone else dies for your arrogance, you pathetic wretch .”
“Who?” I demanded, tightening my grip on the hilt. “What is going to get worse?” The edges of my vision went black, and my entire world centered on the creature before me. This monster that had stolen the most important person in my life. My hands shook with the force of my grip, pressing further.
“Vor,” Trygg said quietly. But I ignored him—him and Corbyn’s hand at my elbow. All of them, trying to hold me back.
The huathe choked out a rough cough, golden blood dribbling from his beak as my hands pressed the blade in further. His warbling voice was barely audible as he said, “Gremfylk.”
And as he said it, my rage became a blinding, overwhelming storm. One final swarm of fury burned in my throat, releasing in a feral scream. Trygg’s blade pierced through feather, sinew, and hollow bone, digging into the library floor with a thud.