Page 104 of A Thief Among Fae

Then a scream rips through my mind, echoing through my skull until I lose all sense of my surroundings. I slam my palms over my ears, but the scream is inside me, consuming me. I can’t see. I can’t think. I can’t focus on my Gift.

Pain shoots up my knees as I collapse onto all fours, unable to bear it. What’s even worse is that I know this voice. Why is it so familiar?

“Please!” Evie begs between sobs. “Please stop hurting me!”

It’s as if my heart implodes inside my chest, the way it furiously beats, the way rage overwhelms me until I’m screaming, too. My mother screams, and then my father, their voices shaking with terror. Evie wails again, guttural and raw with pain that makes me shake.

“It’s not real,” I plead to them, to myself, whoever will listen. “It’s not real.” My voice drowns underneath their fear. I don’t know if I even made a sound.

Not like this. I have to survive.

I told Evie I’d come back home.

Chapter 30

My body shakes as I struggle to wrench myself free from Gashil’s torment. Every second hurts, the pain flaying my mind and soul. There’s no end to the screaming, like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

“It’s not real!” I yell. I anchor myself to the ground and will my magic to feel the walls, the weapon racks, the armor of the fomorians, and my strewn knives.

At once, I awaken on my knees.

“Impressive,” Gashil says into my head. “Not many can shake themselves free from my power.” Then he glances at the doorway and smiles. “He finally shows.”

“Gashil,” Desmond says as he steps beside me, his voice as cold as death’s caress. His hand brushes across my cheek, but his gaze doesn’t leave the assassin. “What did you do to her?”

Gashil glances at me. “Why don’t you tell him how much fun we’ve had?”

“Nikolai’s dead,” I rasp. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed glass. I must’ve been screaming after all.

An indescribable energy permeates the room. It’s different from the anticipatory thrum before a thunderstorm, more akin to the coolness one feels when passing from sunlight to shadow. It shivers along my skin, whispering its desire for malevolence, promising death.

Whatever it is, it’s utterly terrifying.

Gashil laughs, but the female fomorian gasps. She releases Finnian from her chokehold, and he falls to his knees, his face sheet-white. The fomorian stares at Desmond, failing to notice Finnian crawling toward Min’s fallen form.

“You forfeited your lives by harming them,” Desmond warns Gashil.

And then his attack begins.

With Gashil forced to parry and the other assassin still gawking, I don’t waste the opportunity. I sprint to the weapons rack even as the raw slice of skin across my upper arm throbs in protest. I grab a spear in hopes it’ll pierce through the assassin’s mail armor like butter.

Then I heft it as Desmond fights Gashil with the ceaseless fluidity of water, every slash and block blending into a relentless assault. A bash of the hilt to Gashil’s chest, a kick that sends him sprawling. A slash meant to sever Gashil’s head from his neck fails when he rolls sideways, but Desmond lands another kick before Gashil jumps to his feet.

The way he moves is beautiful in its lethality, entrancing me. I’d watch longer if I didn’t have my own opponent to face and people I need to protect.

The female tears her gaze away and focuses on me. She grins, moving into a low stance. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“Let’s,” I agree. I charge at her. Gritting my teeth, I plunge all of my magic into the momentum of the spear’s thrust. The fomorian laughs and doesn’t dodge. She believes I’m too weak to pierce her chainmail armor.

She believes wrong.

The tip drives into her chest. Her gasp gives me a heady burst of victory, but anger swirls in her watery eyes. It’s not over yet.

I pull the spear back. It snags on the chainmail. I tug again. The fomorian hisses in pain. It’s not coming out. “Shit,” I rasp, letting go to retreat.

Someone cries out. I glance away for a fraction of a second. It’s Desmond, one hand clawing at his head as the other white-knuckles his sword. “Cyn!” he yells, my name drenched in hysteria.

Gashil laughs. “It’s too easy to mess with your head, foolish prince.”