Light
CYRUS
From the moment Prue parted ways with him, Cyrus’s chest cinched tighter and tighter, making it difficult to breathe.
He forced himself to carry on. Prue needed to do this.
And he needed to trust her.
Despite the raging panic mounting within him, the desperation to get his wife back and carry her to safety.
Sirens continued squawking and shrieking, diving left and right alongside the spirits Evander had brought with him. Cyrus still wasn’t sure how his brother had not only managed to fulfill his bargain with the Wild Spirits but also free them.
Cyrus had certainly underestimated Evander.
From within the mist, a shape barreled forward, colliding with Cyrus and jolting him from his thoughts.
Cyrus barked out in pain as he landed hard on his back and elbows, grappling with a hairy mangy creature who seemed to be part canine, part bear.
Long, sharp teeth snapped at him as the creature snarled and spat.
Gritting his teeth, Cyrus conjured his lightning, igniting the air.
His magic crackled, striking the creature.
The beast howled and toppled off Cyrus with a low whine.
Cyrus struck again, sending a full blast of his power directly into the creature’s chest. A moment later, it fell over, its charred corpse nothing more than a smoking husk.
“What the hell was that thing?” Cyrus growled, wiping dirt from his scraped and bleeding elbows.
“A hellhound,” said Evander, who was standing above a similar corpse. He held a sword dripping with black blood, and a long gash ran along his cheek. He exchanged a grim look with Cyrus. “The Titans are drawing out more dark creatures.”
“They’re desperate,” Cyrus said thoughtfully. “They’re worried Prue and Mona will succeed.” Hope bloomed in his chest, but it was short-lived as a loud and shrill screech pierced the air. It was similar to the sounds the sirens made, but this one was stronger and more guttural.
Cyrus went rigid as another dark shape emerged from the mist, hurtling toward him at breakneck speed.
He ducked to avoid another collision, but long claws wrapped around his leg, dragging him in the dirt.
His hands flew out, trying to grab something to slow him down, but all he managed to do was peel the flesh away from his palms as they scraped mercilessly on the hardened ground.
His lightning struck out blindly, but he missed the creature. He couldn’t even see it. He was dangling from one leg, his hair whipping around him as he struggled to detach himself from whatever had grabbed him.
Hot liquid gushed down his leg, spattering his face and burning his eyes. He groaned, crying out when the beast released him and he slammed into the ground. Bloodied cuts stung all over his hands and arms, and he was gasping for breath, his body numb from the pain.
“Harpies,” Evander hissed. A slicing wet sound echoed, and Cyrus knew his brother had killed the creature.
“Well, shit,” Cyrus muttered, rolling to his side and wincing. “Those are almost worse than the sirens.”
Evander gave him a flat look. “Yes, but the sirens are on our side.”
Unfortunately, the siren call did not work on creatures like harpies. A harpy, like a siren, had the face of a woman and the body of a bird. But harpies were much larger, their black-feathered forms the size of giant eagles as opposed to the raven-shaped bodies of sirens.
“Do you need my sword?” Evander extended his arm, offering his blood-soaked blade.
Cyrus was about to snap something at him when he noticed the blade was glowing. It was white and gleaming, just like the souls still floating through the air. “Where did you get that?”
Evander’s smile had a hint of smugness. “From Typhon. It won’t last long, but it should help you if another harpy tries to drag you through the mud.”
Cyrus shoved at his brother, who laughed. “What do you mean, it won’t last long?”
“The Wild Spirits can only make certain things corporeal for a certain amount of time. Typhon’s blade is different because he shared so much energy with me.
I think that’s why he’s still out there.
” Evander gestured toward the sky where a winged creature streaked past. “The others don’t have the energy to keep fighting as long as he can. ”
Cyrus’s blood chilled. “So… they’re leaving?”
“They have to, otherwise their souls will disintegrate. They’ve fought a long time to find peace, and I’m not going to rob them of it.”
Cyrus swallowed hard. He, too, had promised freedom to the Wild Spirits. He didn’t blame Evander for letting them go. They were lucky the spirits had fought for them this long.
But with the harpies and hellhounds emerging, it was the worst time for them to lose their allies.
“I wouldn’t think less of you if you retreated,” Evander said, his silver eyes solemn. “You have a kingdom to rule. Your people need you alive so you can look after them.”
Cyrus scowled. “I’m not leaving. Not when Prue is out there fighting.”
“But you are mortal.”
“So are you!” Cyrus snapped. Then, he faltered, noting Evander’s silvery eyes. Was he mortal?
Evander shrugged, as if he didn’t quite know the answer to this, either.
“Romanos siphoned my death magic from me, but Typhon’s ghost lingered.
I released Typhon to the Wild Spirits, which freed them before they could drain me of my immortal blood.
I don’t possess magic, but… I am not as weak as a mortal.
” His eyes glinted, and Cyrus imagined he was about to say, Not as weak as you.
A roar interrupted them as a hellhound leapt from the darkness. With one brutal strike of his lightning, Cyrus ignited the creature, setting its body ablaze. When the light faded, it fell to the ground, unmoving.
“So, what you’re saying is,” Cyrus said, “you’re a mutant, and no one is quite sure what you are.”
Evander chuckled. “Yes. Precisely that.”
A deafening boom shook the ground. Cracks splintered along the earth. Chunks of hard rock crashed around them as the very ground at their feet began to break apart.
“Shit,” Cyrus hissed, backing away to avoid getting sucked into a crevice. But the ground was splitting too quickly. He broke into a sprint, Evander at his side as they tried to outrun the earthquake.
“I really wish… I still had Typhon’s… wings right about now!” Evander panted.
Cyrus was too winded to respond, his body straining and throbbing with each frantic stride. Gods, he was so weak. He wouldn’t make it.
A burst of gold and silver light ignited in the distance, lighting up the sky. For a moment, Cyrus was so transfixed by it that he almost lost his footing.
“It’s Prue and Mona,” he gasped, recognizing the beam of Prue’s gold magic.
The distraction cost him. His foot connected with something hard, something he couldn’t see, and he went sprawling. His arms flew out to break his fall, but he slammed sideways, his head crashing into rocks and debris. Darkness clouded his vision, and he went utterly still.
Muffled voices echoed around him. The world seemed hazy and foggy. He couldn’t make out distinct shapes or sounds. Was he dead? It certainly felt like it.
Smack. Cyrus’s head swiveled as Evander slapped him hard across the face.
“Wake up, dammit!” Evander bellowed. The ground continued to rumble around them.
Cyrus gasped, the sound wet and rattling. Blood dribbled from his mouth. He still couldn’t clear his damn head. Everything was blurred.
“How many times are you going to trip and fall like an idiot?” Evander asked in exasperation. “Gods, at this rate, you’ll be lucky to survive another five minutes.”
He was trying to goad Cyrus. Cyrus yearned to respond, to taunt him with his own barb, but only a mangled jumble of sounds escaped him. More blood bubbled from his lips.
“Shit. Shit. Cyrus!” Evander’s voice sounded closer, as if he were right next to Cyrus’s face. Evander grabbed him, clearly trying to rouse him. “Cyrus, can you see?”
“N-No.” Cyrus could barely speak.
Oh, gods. He was dying. He had to be. That was how he would end his pitiful existence—by falling like a damn fool.
“The—The earthquake?” Cyrus rasped, coughing up more blood.
“I think it settled,” Evander said, but his voice was uncertain. “For now.”
“Why—Why is everything still shaking?”
Evander went deadly quiet at that, and Cyrus knew something was horribly wrong.
“Cyrus—” Evander finally spoke, his voice tinged with horror.
A loud screech sounded, and Evander was ripped from Cyrus’s side, his strangled cry fading in the distance.
“Evander!” Cyrus roared. He sat forward, squinting and blinking, trying to clear his head. Gods, he couldn’t see!
He took several deep breaths, remembering the all-consuming darkness of Tartarus. When he’d traveled those caves with Prue, he had coached her on how to trust her goddess senses instead of her mortal ones.
Cyrus didn’t have that power anymore… but he did have his mortal senses.
That would have to do.
On wobbly feet, Cyrus stood, arms stretched on either side of him for balance. He could only make out vague shapes—there was a jagged boulder nearby, and the mist still lingered. But everything continued to quake and tremble, as if the earthquake were still going on.
Cyrus clenched his teeth against the pain spiraling through him, making him nauseous. He stopped trying to move and merely stood there, closing his eyes and relying on his other senses.
Evander’s voice rang out, but it was far away. Too far.
What took him? Cyrus asked himself, ears straining.
Then, he heard it again: that same piercing screech. It was a harpy. It had to be.
Cyrus blindly flexed his arm, reaching forward, then summoned his lightning. It illuminated the space several feet in front of him, enough for him to see the tracks Evander had left when the harpy had dragged him off.
Cyrus moved, his steps clumsy as he hurried after Evander. Occasionally, he stopped to conjure another bolt of lightning to show the way before taking off again.