“It’s draining you,” Auggie says.
“I’m good. I can keep going. Just… just let me have a few more minutes.”
Auggie mutters something to Tatiana, but she doesn’t stop chanting either, and he must back off because West starts up her spell again, faster and faster, louder, the magic rushing through my wings, down my tail, up to the very tips of my horns, and—
“We’ve got incoming!” Draegan bursts through the doorway. “Demons!”
“Hold them off!” West shouts. “I’m almost there!”
“Fuck!” Auggie again, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass shattering, wood splintering…
“As it is written,” West shouts at the top of her lungs, “by my breath and blade! So shall this magic be fully unmade!”
With a thunderous boom, the magic enveloping us disappears, and all at once, I can breathe. I can feel and hear and see and taste the air around me, the candle smoke, the burning herbs.
I can move.
Jude and I explode out of those stone prisons as though our girl set off bombs inside us.
“It worked!” she leaps to her feet, tears in her eyes, her face pale and drawn, but that smile… that fucking smile makes it all worth it.
But there’s no time for the celebratory kiss I long for.
The front door is hanging off the hinges, all the front windows shattered. Outside, the clash of swords and fire and dark magic echo through the desolate town as Drae and Auggie try to hold off the demons.
Jude and I charge through the door, the witches close behind us, all of us bursting out into the blinding sun.
Into pure chaos.
My newly re-started heart sputters as I catch sight of our attackers—two dozen monsters straight out of a nightmare, with translucent, tattered skin, wings made of black fire, claws like curved blades, and rows of needle-thin, razor-sharp teeth. The beasts are twice as large as a gargoyle, lethal beyond any foe we’ve ever battled.
Demons? No. These aren’t the simple-minded mage-demons from the cathedral.
These are hell’s most elite forces, led by a single commander.
Zorakkov.
Chapter Twenty-Three
AUGUSTINE
It’s worse than all the battles of the fae wars combined.
Because unlike Verrick’s dark-fae armies,thesesoldiers were forged in the very fires of hell, honed by thousands of years of endless torture until they knew no fear, no pain, no mercy.
Nothing but chaos and bloodlust.
Standing in front of the gallows in the town square, guarded by three massive demons, Zorakkov casts his wicked spells. The body he occupies—Hunter’s body—is ruined. One eye missing, half his skull caved in, bloody fissures cracking his skin, bones protruding from festering wounds.
But he doesn’t need his body, only his mouth. Only those dark spells muttered through split lips, calling his legions to fight.
Our only advantage is that we’re faster and more nimble in the air, but what the demons lack in speed and flexibility they make up for with sheer power, not to mention their ability to strike terror into the heart with a single roar.
Armed with daggers and short swords, Drae and I fend off their attacks in midair with a series of jabs and cuts—about as much as we can manage before we’re forced to dart away to avoid a bite or a swipe of their deadly claws. Black blood and gore stains the freshly fallen snow below, but our minor attacks are not enough.
With Zorakkov’s spells giving them life, they’re nearly impossible to kill. Decapitation is the best option, but so far, we’ve only managed to cleave off one head.
But then, just when I’m about to start writing our damn eulogies, the ground below lights up with magic, an explosion of red and gold and orange that rivals the Fourth of July Spectacular at the South Street Seaport.
