Knife in hand, Folly scrambles for his feet. His stupid robe tangles around his ankle again, but falling to his knee again doesn’t make a difference. He has no hope of running from the spell swirling around the creature’s hand. The spell coils, then launches?—
And a golden rift tears through the night.
Chapter 4
Yarrow
Yarrow steps through the rift, axe in hand. One moment he’s Elsewhere, and the next, he’s in the path of a spell.
Shit. Haelwen wasn’t kidding about the havoc. Or that the talisman would guide Yarrow directly to the shapestealer’s location.
The intrusion of foul magic is unmistakable, like grimy mud slipping down the back of his neck. But nothing happens. The spell must have failed.
Whirling in the curse’s direction, Yarrow takes in the situation. The rift narrows behind him but doesn’t fully close, and its golden light illuminates the scene. Deep night blankets the human realm above a chaotic festival. A tent burns nearby. Scores of humans yell drunkenly in the distance, but there are only two figures within twenty feet of Yarrow.
The one to the left must be Moriath, guised as a human witch. That’s one of the forms Nevander described. To Yarrow’s right, an actual human—probably—huddles on the ground. He’s unremarkable at first glance, except for one golden eye.
Another spell burns through the air. Snarling, Yarrow tears away from that distracting eye. His axe meets the spell in midair Magic sizzles against the heavy blade, dispersing into nothing.
That’s one power Yarrow inherited from his fae mother. His weapon is imbued with his own magical essence, far stronger and more powerful than ordinary steel.
“Hey, little human,” Yarrow calls out, keeping one eye on Moriath. “I’d recommend running away now.”
The human staggers to his feet, long robe falling off one shoulder. He stumbles backwards—then collapses with a cry, clutching his stomach. Hurt, maybe. Another curse might have gotten him. But the human isn’t Yarrow’s problem.
Yarrow’s own stomach twists in discomfort. This realm’s atmosphere must not agree with him. He’d better finish this fast.
Thankfully, Haelwen never said this was a secret mission. If she wants this covered up from the humans, she’d best assign someone else. Subtlety isn’t Yarrow’s specialty.
Moriath circles around on creaky legs. Then his form shifts with a sickening ripple of flesh. Transforming into shadow, he nearly disappears against the smoke and the smoldering tent.
Then he reforms as a fae. Tall, lean, with deep copper eyes. A longsword gleams in the light of the rift and fire.
Yarrow spares a thought for the fae whose likeness stands before him, and the original human witch too. Shapestealers aren’t like ordinary creatures who can change form or disguise themselves. They gain their forms and power by killing other beings. The only power they keep between each form is that of transformation—they have to change shapes to use their full arsenal of magic.
The human witch and the copper-eyed fae are dead. Only their killer remains.
Time to stop this parasitic shadow. Yarrow lunges, axe swinging. His furious essence sharpens the blade.
Moriath dodges, trying to come up under Yarrow’s guard. Exactly what Yarrow wanted. Hooking Moriath’s blade on the smaller curve of his axe, Yarrow yanks hard.
Hissing curses, Moriath barely keeps hold of his blade. He staggers back, arms trembling. Then he steadies.
Fuck. Moriath has good control over the fae’s magic.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” Moriath gasps, indignant.
“Smart move, taking this form,” Yarrow taunts. “Your witchery was fucking useless. That curse didn’t even do anything.”
Alarmingly, Moriath grins. “Oh, but it did, though you’ve ruined it. But there’s an easy way to fix a ruined spell.”
Yarrow hefts his axe. He still can’t feel the spell, but yeah, better to take care of this, just in case. There are two easy ways to break a curse—kill the subject, or kill the caster.
His next swing sends Moriath’s sword flying. Yarrow moves in for the throat, but at the last moment, the shapestealer ducks. Strands of severed hair float in his wake.
“You’re as much use as teats on a fish,” Yarrow says, triumph spurring him forward?—
Moriath’s sword meets his blow.
