Beside me, Kylian whoops like a cowboy and tosses something.
I hope it's not a grenade.
I risk a tiny glance over my shoulder.
And the sight makes my blood turn to ice. My arrogance shreds into thin filaments.
Noth soldiers pour in on foot, dragon insignia clear as day on their uniforms. They climb over the broken tank and then slide down its front end, rifles up. A dozen have already fanned out across the back of the room and are firing on the remaining civilians.
And us.
My head whips back to the front painfully as my heart gives a censuring squeeze.
I was wrong.
This wasn't Mother's doing.
The crowd shoving at the door ahead of us bursts apart as a drawn-out scream rips the air.
Tears gloss my vision, my throat tightens, and breathing becomes impossible.
I'm lightheaded, and I hear my own voice as though it's through a tunnel when I say, "I think that was my father."
48
BRYLEE
The swarmingmass of people behind the throne scatters, and as they break apart, I see my father framed by the golden door trim like he's part of a living royal portrait.
But unlike a portrait, his face is ashen, his eyes wide with shock. His chest arches forward, and the tip of a knife protrudes right through his heart.
My own chest explodes in pain as he crumples to his knees. Blood sprays from his wound, and the expression on his face is already slackening, his head lolling as his hands smack to the floor. A second later, he goes limp, face cracking against the marble, his soul ripped from this world by a blade.
Air cleaves through my lungs as I pant, disbelieving.
My fingertips come to my lips and drag down as I stare at him, mentally urging him to rise, to pull the handle from his back. I beg the universe to rewind.
Just a few seconds, that's all. Please. PLEASE.
But my dad is gone.
Wisps of memories glide through my head—him teaching Ted and me to play catch, chasing us through the castle, lighting the candles on my birthday cupcake, the hug he gave me last Christmas when I got him a vinyl from his favorite band.
My throat tightens.
His killer steps through the doorway and over his body like it's an inconvenience. My gaze trails up over black combat boots, Noth military garb, gun in hand and rifle hanging from a sling across his torso, up toward a scarred face covered with a gray bandana below the eyes.
But I'd know those eyes anywhere.
Those black pits.
My muscles constrict and freeze as shock pours through me from head to toe.
Pedro.
The devil isn't dead. And he's brought hell here with him.
A horrified gasp escapes from my lips as murderous fury blazes up my sides, heats my cheeks, and has me turning to Kylian.
