Page 95 of Demon Touched

“Who are they?” he demands of the alarmed ephilium.

Before he can answer, the wall beside us explodes.

A spray of dust and rubble rains down on us, and in the same instant there’s a large, warm body against mine, pressing me to the floor as leathery black wings spread out to shield me.

The stones skittering across the floor settle, though the fighting rages on around us. I raise my head, finding Syrus’s face beside me—the soft press of his cheek against mine anchoring me in the chaos.

“Whatever’s going on, we should get you out of here,” he says against my ear. “This is some pale-blood mess, Leah, and you don’t need to get tangled up in it.”

I sit up to look behind us, at the hole that’s just been blasted through the wall to the reception room. It must’ve taken a particularly concentrated bit of lightning to do that.

The seraphim’s lightning, of course. I can see now that Orelle and Wyvier are in there, golden cowls pushed back, lighting up the room with flashes of white as they hurl their magic at attackers who have gotten inside.

“But we could do something,” I say, still a little dazed from the blast. “You could help them.”

I’ve seen Syrus’s power unleashed. He could probably end this whole battle now if he stepped in. It would cement his standing with the seraphim surely, even if some would balk at him risking killing ephilium civilians in their homeland. Except—it suddenly occurs to me that Syrus doesn’t need to be on good terms with the seraphim anymore. The bond is broken. He’s done what he came here to do.

I scramble to my feet as one of the ephilium Wyvier is fighting stumbles past the opening in the destroyed wall. He’s had his helmet knocked off, and recognition flares in me. It’s Roryn, Rowan’s older brother.

“Leah!” Syrus warns as I scramble closer to the demolished wall, almost tripping on the clumps of rubble as my eyes search the room.

I don’t have to look far to find my grandfather.

His helmet doesn’t cover his face, instead displaying his taut, determined expression as he circles Seraph Orelle with six others. Some have their faces obscured, but I recognize Ustarne, the host of the dinner. I’m sure if I unmasked the others, I’d find a roster of the people Garion’s introduced me to over the last few weeks.

His inner circle. The cabal he’s been assembling this whole time for this coup.

There’s a scream, and I twist my neck to see lightning gripping Roryn in an agonized spasm. He crumples to the floor moments later, and Wyvier spins closer to drive her sword through his throat. His cheeks splatter silver with his own blood. It sizzles as it hits his skin, which is still searing from the heat of the seraph’s lightning.

Ustarne bellows something across the echoing chamber, and Garion barely blocks a bolt of Orelle’s magic with his sword. His blade is already imbued with his own lightning, making it crackle and writhe angrily as it bears the brunt of Orelle’s power. It’s too much for Garion, who drops the sword with a pained grunt, pulling a scorched hand to his chest.

Wyvier is picking off those still encircling Orelle, diving across the room, wings flaring, like a storm of death. I see now the full warrior force of the seraphim as she wrenches an ephilium’s wing backward with an awful snapping sound, then cuts the legs out from under another with the spin of a throwing knife.

“You have flown too close to the sun, Illidore.” Orelle’s voice is ice as he advances on my grandfather, his blade poised at his side.

Behind me, I’m dimly aware of Syrus calling my name.

One of Garion’s comrades—a tall, blonde woman who was at the ball—lunges for Orelle, but the seraphim senses her coming, jabbing his sword into her thigh without even looking at her. She falls back, groaning.

Garion’s face contorts, and he straightens up, shoulders back, as Orelle closes the gap between them. He looks like a man who can’t fathom defeat, who’s looking into the jaws of failure and planning to pluck out each of its fangs, one by one.

“I’d rather burn than live to watch this realm become more and more sullied with your weakness,” Garion snarls.

He throws himself at the seraph as lightning erupts from his hands, wrapping around Orelle’s neck. Orelle grunts in pain, smoke rising from his burning flesh, but he endures it, allowing Garion to keep him in his grip. It’s so Garion’s hands stay occupied, I realize, as Orelle lifts his arms. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to embrace Garion, then he slides his sword tip up through the gap between Garion’s armor and helmet.

“Then burn,” Orelle says, meeting Garion’s eyes as lightning flares along his blade, surging up against the base of Garion’s skull. A hand grabs my arm, and I whip around to see Syrus staring at me.

“Viz is injured. A head wound from the wall collapse. We need to get him out of here.”

I swallow and nod, only to catch movement over Syrus’s shoulder.

“Watch out!” I warn, and Syrus spins toward the guard charging at him. A column of shadow springs up to envelop the guard’s head, leaving him clawing at his throat for air. Beyond him, Viz lies motionless amid chunks of wall, a cut along his hairline that’s spilling blood down his cheek and neck.

Glancing back into the reception room, I see that Garion’s body is a blackened, smoking heap on the floor while Orelle is busy taking Ustarne apart with his blade. In that second, Wyvier looks up from where she’s crouching over a broken body. Her gaze is bright with violence as she catches my eye across the room.

I see her taking me in—Garion’s granddaughter, standing with Syrus, while covered in Cyrax runes painted across my arms in green blood.

Well shit, that’s pretty incriminating.