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The shade rushed her fast. She blocked the blow and sharply pitched her upper body forward, rocking him backwards. Singing “Who Let The Dogs Out,” Anabel/Mary sliced out with her sword and disemboweled him.
Wynter spared a moment to check on Cain. She couldn’t tell if he’d suffered any injuries, but she could see that the other Ancients had now arrived. They were killing soldiers left and right, but those soldiers kept instantly getting replaced by others.
Swords clanged. Voices grunted. A crow screeched. A wild cat roared and hissed. Glass vials shattered as Anabel/Mary threw potions at the shades.
The air was now static with the potent power of the Ancients. Wynter would rather that she and her coven were fighting alongside them—or, more specifically, alongside Cain. But the shades acted as a barrier between them and the Ancients, keeping the two groups separated, preventing them from combining forces . . . and thus making her and Cain easier for the shades to kill.
Fucking Saul.
A shade bypassed Xavier and ran at Wynter fast. Heat blazed her arm as his blade carved into her skin, drawing blood. Son of a fucker.
Snarling, Wynter hit him with a hot, toxic blast of magick just as Xavier struck him with a surge of magick that smelled of death, mold, and decay. The combined attack took out the shade. But she didn’t get the chance to feel even a moment of triumph, because another shade lunged at her. He swiped out his sword, tearing through her tee and slicing through flesh. Gritting her teeth, Wynter took him out moments later by slicing his throat.
She and her coven fought on, eliminating soldier after soldier . . . but more just kept on replacing them. Annoyingly, the runes on her blade seemed to be useless against the shades. Because they weren’t really alive, she supposed. They were solid, but not people. If they felt the scuttle of phantom insects courtesy of the sword’s enchantment, they showed no signs of it.
They showed no signs of anything.
They bled, but they never grunted, swore, or cried out. Never wore expressions of frustration or pain—only a cold determination. Even her magick garnered no emotional reaction from them. Their skin blackened, blistered, and quickly began to wither, but the soldiers kept fighting, no disgust or panic on their faces.
It was a minute or so before she realized that the “deceased” shades were no longer being replaced by others. There were now only three left—two, actually, she corrected as Delilah ripped out the throat of one. Anabel/Mary beheaded another while Xavier snapped the neck of the third.
And then there were none.
Wynter waited, but no more soldiers winked into existence. There were only a few left battling the Ancients, but they were swiftly taken out. None replaced them either.
“Maybe Saul feels too drained from experiencing the pain of the shades’ injuries to carry on,” suggested Xavier.
“Maybe.” Still, Wynter didn’t lower her sword, keeping herself braced for another—
A sphere of blinding light crashed into her head. It burned like lava, hit like metal, crackled through her system, and arched her back violently as an agonized scream got trapped in her throat. She hit the ground as her vision dimmed, and then her heart stuttered to a stop.
Shock stole Cain’s breath as Wynter collapsed to the ground like a broken doll. That shock swiftly vanished under a hot wave of feral fury that all but drowned him. His head whipped in the direction from which the sphere of light had come, and he noticed Saul standing on a cliff beyond the outskirts of the town.
Cain’s monster roared so loud his head fucking hurt. The roar wasn’t just a mere expression of rage, it was a challenge. A promise of painful retribution.
Another bright sphere appeared in Saul’s hand. Cain acted fast, launching a power grenade that exploded in the air, sending small fragments of dark energy into Saul’s skin. The Aeon cried out in pain, staggered backwards, and then abruptly disappeared as the wind snatched him up once more.
Too worried for Wynter to be pissed that Saul had vanished, Cain blurred to her side, barging right past her coven members—all of whom had surrounded her protectively. He scooped her up off the ground, his gut in fucking knots. Cradling her limp form against him, he swallowed hard.
She was dead. He knew it. The link he had to her soul was beginning to fade.
Her coven tried reassuring him that she’d come back, but Cain didn’t respond. Didn’t spare a glance for anyone around him. Didn’t care about anyone but her. He moved with the enhanced speed of his kind as he rushed back to the manor and upstairs to the mirror that then took him straight to his Keep.
In his chamber, Cain meant to lower her to the bed, but he found that he couldn’t let go of her. Instead, he sank into the armchair, keeping her huddled against his chest. Holding her, knowing she was dead in his arms and feeling his connection to her soul continuing to fade, was an epic mindfuck.
Closing his eyes, Cain drew in a breath. It hurt. As if his ribcage had become smaller, or his lungs had expanded.
Silently willing her heart to begin beating again, Cain opened his eyes and kissed her forehead. He’d never felt so fucking powerless. Not even when the Aeons imprisoned him and he’d realized that no amount of attacking the cage would break it.
“Wake up for me, Wynter,” he said without moving his mouth from her forehead. “Come back to me.”
She didn’t wake. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
His creature pushed against Cain’s insides, wanting to be near her. It was still vibrating with rage, taunted by the memory of her dropping to the ground like a stringless puppet.
Cain didn’t allow himself to even consider that she could truly be dead for good. No, she’d come back. She would. Just as she’d once come back from Ishtar’s blow.
He ignored the voice in his head reminding him that the Ancient’s strike hadn’t meant to be lethal; that Saul’s blow, on the other hand, had aimed to kill.
