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Behind the line of troops he used like a shield, Abel zapped the killer bees with power . . . just as he’d done to the locusts and tiger mosquitos that Cain had sent his way earlier.
The Aeons were experts at calling on and using the natural elements. Abel repeatedly utilized said ability as he attacked Cain hard. And Cain, well, he did what he did best. He twisted the elemental power. Tainted it. Morphed it. Used it against its wielder over and over. It was an ability that only Cain possessed.
With a snarl, Abel whipped out his arm. A white-hot spear of light struck Cain’s shoulder, melting cloth and skin as it burned like a firebrand and pissed off his inner creature.
Clenching his teeth against the pain, Cain retaliated with a ball of crackling power. It crashed into the troops protecting Abel, cleaving into them like a chainsaw to leave their leader exposed. But more troops were quick to replace those that fell. Just the same, Abel was quick to again strike at Cain. They went back to trading blows as cries, curses, explosions and screams continued to ring through the air.
A hiss came from somewhere beside Cain and then . . . “Fucking shockwaves,” spat Azazel.
Just then, yet another wave of flaming arrows were released. Several sank into a passing dragon, who roared out a blast of fire that lit up the offending troops like Christmas trees.
Since the battle began, row after row of arrows had repeatedly darted through the sky and descended on the town. Some were quickly extinguished by power or magick before they could even hit the ground. But others landed—hitting residents, houses, trees, warehouses, and other buildings.
Many of the bowmen had originally aimed straight for the manor in what had been a clear attempt to burn it down. They had eventually given up, seeming to realize that magickal wards protected the building. Really, it took them long enough to pick up on it.
Not all troops used bows and arrows. Others appeared to be witches, warlocks, and mages—they attacked with magick, and they attacked hard. But the aides standing in front of the manor worked to deflect and retaliate against the magickal strikes, leaving the Ancients able to concentrate on the Aeons.
“Anyone seen any signs of Saul?” Seth called out.
“No,” Cain shouted without looking away from Abel, who would leap on any advantage given.
Abel wasn’t an easy man to hurt. Not only due to the troops acting as living shields, but because he fought well. Always had. Which was no surprise, given that he was the protégé of Adam—the best wielder of elemental power among his kind.
However, Abel lacked the one thing that his father didn’t: the ability to shut off his emotions. Abel didn’t strive to do it right then either. He was so set on being the one to kill Cain that he didn’t focus on anything else—not even his troops or fellow Aeons. As such, he hadn’t yet realized that his numbers had dropped.
Demons and vampires were blasting the troops with offensive powers. The fey were attacking with magick and shooting arrows that were coated in magickal dust that could cause many things from memory loss to sensory paralysis. Dragons were breathing fire, wind, and ice at the troops, when they weren’t letting out blasts of water that put out fires.
Much like Cain himself, the dragons struck at the cliffs as well as their enemies. Many fissures had now formed in said cliffs, and bits of rock often tumbled downward, forcing the troops to either back up or be prepared to plummet to the ground. Each time a soldier fell, other townspeople were there to take them down, including the shifters, lycans, and berserkers.
Badly injured residents often retreated into buildings where healers waited. Other townspeople would quickly replace the wounded on the battlefield, who would retreat when they themselves required healing and be instantly replaced by the newly healed fighters.
Yelling something Cain couldn’t quite make out, Abel slammed up his hand. Ice-cold air then battered at Cain’s face, snatching his breath and prickling his skin like chilblains.
Motherfucker. Cain sharply flicked his hand, retaliating with a thick gust of power that whipped the troops shielding Abel and bashed at the cliff. Some troops fell back, knocking into Abel, while others tumbled forward as yet more rock broke away from the cliff.
Landing flat on his ass, Abel looked around and seemed to finally notice that many of his troops had met their doom. He let out an enraged roar that delighted Cain’s creature and then ordered a line of the remaining troops to descend on the town . . . which had been exactly what Cain had been waiting for.
*
Rushing through the manor’s hallway, Wynter could hear the sounds of battle coming from outside. The noise level was horrendous. There were screams, howls, snarls, death cries, the crackling of magick, the hissing of flames, the blasts of dragon’s breath, and the whooshing of arrows.
And then came an almighty roar of anger.
She all but burst out of the building with her coven hot on her heels and raced down the driveway as she took in the chaos around them. Flares and sparks of magick and power lit up the night. Billows of smoke—some from fires, some from extinguished fires—stained the air here and there. All sorts of colorful orbs made up of various things such as energy, light, magick, and pure power whipped back and forth. The flapping of dragon wings cast shadows over the town as the huge creatures screeched and attacked.
Moreover, troops were clambering down the cliffs from every direction, clearly intending to pour out onto the town. The hooves or paws of various shapeshifting creatures thundered along the ground as they charged at said troops.
Outside the iron gates, she looked up at the manor’s roof, seeing that the Ancients were launching power in pretty much every direction, exchanging “blows” with the Aeons and magick-using troops on the cliffs.
Just then, Cain let out a surge of hissing, popping power that rocketed straight up toward the dark sky, lighting it up like a firework. Mere moments later, battle cries came from the near distance. Many troops on the cliffs whirled as they realized that people were now coming at them from behind. People that Wynter knew were in the Ancients’ service and had been called on to fight.
She smiled.
“Let’s move,” Wynter told her coven, her blood bubbling with battle adrenaline. As they’d pre-agreed to concentrate on any troops that tried invading the town, they made a crazy dash for the woods, ready to cut them down. She called to her sword and flexed her hand around the hilt, her magick humming in her belly.
They’d no sooner stepped into the woods than a group of intruders came straight at Wynter and her coven, carrying swords and/or spheres of magick. The horrific state of her seemed to take them off-guard, as did the mark on her face, but they didn’t hesitate to strike.
Wynter lifted her sword, deflecting the sphere that whooshed toward her head, and then charged at the bastard who’d thrown it. He brought up his sword fast, and their blades met with a fierce clash. They went at each other hard, slicing and ducking. He cursed long and loud when she first nicked his skin, and she knew he felt the scuttle of phantom insects courtesy of her blade’s runes.
