“It's an ambush,” Corvin snarls, and no freaking kidding.
Suddenly I'm in the middle of a nightmare math problem: seventeen clearbloods versus ten of us. Chad and Corvin charge ahead like they've got death wishes, our guards right behind them. Great. Guess I'll just throw myself into the meat grinder too.
“You didn't come here to talk peace terms,” Corvin spits. “You're as two-faced as always. Typical clearbloods!”
Archer draws his sword—because of course he has a sword—with a hilt that screams “I spent my family fortune on this.” But it's the runes etched along the blade that make my skin crawl, lighting up electric blue as he takes his stance.
“Where did you take our dragon?” he demands, like we've got a fire-breathing lizard stashed under the bed.
The other lieutenants fan out like they're posing for some clearblood boy band photo. Gordon and Phillips—Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber—swing battle axes with glowy runes that match Archer's sword. Ezra's got this whip thing with a nasty metal tip that could slice a person in half from ten feet away. And Rennington? Dual daggers, because of course Mr. Fancy Pants needs two weapons when everyone else makes do with one.
“Wouldn't you like to know,” Corvin says, bluffing his ass off.Smart move. Let them think we've got their precious dragon stashed in our basement or something. Less chance they'll nuke our entire coven if they think their scaly friend might get caught in the crossfire. And considering our spiritual batteries are running on fumes right now, we need every advantage.
“All you have to do is hand him over or point us in the right direction,” Archer says, all reasonable-like, as if he's not threatening to murder us. “It's the only way we're walking away from here without killing all of you.”
“There are more of us in Darkbirch than what you see here,” Corvin fires back.
“But you don't have our arsenal,” Rennington sneers, nodding at the dozen goons circling our gates like vultures eyeing roadkill.
Chad curses under his breath.
I follow his gaze and—double crap with sprinkles on top. Their armor's got these channels running through it, pulsing with golden light like molten honey. Dragon juice.The same stuff Mazrov used to nearly barbecue Jax?My stomach does a backflip, then a nosedive. My knees go all wobbly, like they're suddenly made of jello.
“They're using dragon fire,” I squeak, my voice doing that embarrassing thing where it sounds like I've been huffing helium.
“They lost their dragon,” Chad says, shaking his head like he can't believe what he's seeing. But it's right there, glowing like Christmas lights from hell.
Ezra's face twists into something ugly. “The little we salvaged from our reserves we diverted into our best fighters. They may not have Mazrov's capacity, but they'll do.”
We are so monumentally screwed.
It stings on my skin—the raw, lethal crackle of auras going toe-to-toe. Corvin’s eyes burn as he hisses, “We can’t turn back now. Stand your ground, darkbloods! These sniveling bastards came to kill us. What do we say?”
A guard snarls back, “Your souls are ours!” and everything explodes.
Shimmers of energy snap between us, darkblood against clearblood, and I taste ozone as golden pulses arc from their armor.Corvin and Chad barrel into the five lieutenants head-on, axes singing death. My heart hammers. I can’t let them down. Clutching my dagger, I press the blade into my palm and etch the first rune—Angus’s old sigil—watching the marking flare scarlet. “I need you three,” I mutter, voice tight.
Ezra is armorless but he lashes out with his nasty-looking whip. The crack of steel against air is the closest thing to a war drum I’ve ever heard.
The whip’s blade whistles toward my throat. “Brynn, duck!” Chad bellows. Without thinking I drop low and score the second rune—Ezekiel’s mark—into my flesh. Helena’s husband was a genius with potions; I can almost smell his amber brews as the symbol blazes blue.
But Ezra’s relentless. Every snap of that whip digs closer to bone as I dance sideways across the road. “Use a Gaudian Pulse—take him out!” Chad shouts, and I see his magic light up as he fights off Gordon and Phillips.
Chaos bites in every direction. Their weapons thrum with spells that amplify every strike, and behind them march a dozen suits of dragon-fire armor, each one hotter than hell. My pulse echoes in my ears as I roll across the gravel, tumbling until I skid to a ragged stop by an ancient sycamore—first sentinel of Darkbirch’s western woods.
“I can’t… pulse now! It’ll knock me out!” I gasp at Chad, scrambling up. “Draw them into the forest!”
He blinks, then nods. The surviving darkbloods rally, driving the clearbloods off the road, past the gate, deeper into the moon-shadowed canopy where real nightmares wait.
I haul myself upright. Ezra stalks in, whip arcing overhead like a viper about to strike. I tighten my grip on my dagger, ready to carve the final rune—and unleash the darkness that only we know how to wield.
I carve the third rune into my palm, and the sting melts into that weird tingly feeling that's basically an old friend at this point. Goosebumps parade down my spine as I call out her name. “Helena. I need you. Like, right freaking now, please...”
Corvin's holding his own against Dumb and Dumber—sorry, Rennington and Archer. They swing, he dodges, they curse, he smirks. Classic Corvin. He's backing them into the eastern woods, which is exactly where those pretentious clearblood jerks don't want to go. Score one for the home team.
A flash of fire lights up the trees.
Someone screams. A body hits the ground with that awful meaty thud sound that'll definitely feature in my nightmares later. The smell of burnt human wafts over, and I gag as the wind picks up.
