Page 190 of A Thief Among Fae

My magic finds blades, a dagger soaring into each of my hands. I stalk toward Gashil, determined to never let him lay a hand on anyone else again. This time, he isn’t walking away from the fight.

Then visions swarm me. It’s as if I’m dragging myself through nightmare after nightmare. First, the ballroom sconces are extinguished by a howling, battering wind. Sleet pelts me. My hands are numb against the daggers, and my body shudders. I tighten my grip and forge ahead, forcing one foot in front of the other. Then the ballroom bursts into white flames. They lick up the walls, painting the windows with wavering heat. The projection even sizzles along my skin until the daggers burn in my grip.

Let go, Gashil’s magic urges. Drop the daggers.

The urge to listen is excruciating as the metal sears against my skin. “It’s not real,” I mutter. “Not real.” He should be right in front of me. I feel his armor still gripped in my magic, but his projections hide him.

That won’t matter. I’m almost there. Nothing will stop me once I reach him.

“You are weak, human!” Gashil yells into my mind.

My ribs ache as I laugh. “Try again. I’ve heard those words too many times for them to hurt anymore.”

He sneers. “You are no match for me. Release me at once, and we’ll have a fair fight!”

“Fair?” I scoff. “Nothing is fair in war.”

My magic guides me to his chest plate, pinpointing where his heart lies beneath. I tremble with effort, gritting my teeth to keep from screaming as I untether the armor from within. Metal shrieks like nails on stone as the armor tears, then peels back like a petal opening to the sky.

Beneath the carved hole, I feel his clothing, then nothing. Within that nothingness lies his beating, living heart.

I still can’t see him. But I know he’s there, likely cowering now that he’s the one who’s helpless. “I didn’t take you for a coward, Gashil. You won’t face your killer as she takes your life?”

He snarls. “You are still mistaken if you think I’ll let you⁠—”

I plunge the first dagger through the torn gap, burying it until the hilt meets his chest. His scream thunders through me, echoing inside my skull with mind-shattering pain until it claims every thought, every sense of reality I try to hold onto.

Trembling to stay upright, I squeeze the second dagger and thrust it in beside the first.

Silence falls for three blissful seconds as the illusion melts away. I sever my Gift, and he drops, each metal plate clanging together as he slumps against the wall. One pale eye is wide open, frozen in pain. The other is clouded and slick with fluid, Finnian’s needle still proudly stuck through it.

My chest heaves. I watch him as if any second, he’ll stand again, even though my magic caresses his lifeless body.

He’s dead, but Desmond’s strained cry means that Neiro isn’t.

I withdraw the daggers and pocket Finnian’s needle. I have to help Desmond, no matter how beaten and exhausted I am. No matter how badly I want to celebrate Gashil’s death with a relieved cry or even a chance to catch my breath, I must go.

Neiro and Desmond circle each other atop the balcony. Their blades clash.

The bánánach is yards away from me, fallen in battle. Its wings smoke, and its forked tongue hangs out, its yellowed eyes still. Thank the Gods for Auri, but she’s locked in a fight against two fomorian soldiers now.

Purple light pulses as another disc opens behind Neiro.

“No!” Desmond shouts. He backs away from the portal, and Queen Orla Meirden’s corpse rises. Blood has soaked her snow-white dress a ghastly red, and her bodice is torn, the wound through her heart open and gaping.

I run to the steps. Halfway up, Maeve blocks my path. She’s changed out of her gown, now dressed in armor like the fomorians. Her teeth are gritted, the short lower canines popping above her lip. “It’s not too late to run,” she says. “I won’t stop you.”

“I thought you knew me better than that, Maeve. I never run from a fight.”

Maeve sprays seeds from her pockets across the stairs and whispers a command. The seeds crack and sprout from magic I didn’t know she was capable of. The sprouts thicken and grow into thorny vines, but they struggle to anchor themselves in the stone. Instead, they crawl toward Maeve and curl around her limbs.

The vines whip, one ensnaring my ankle. The thorns dig into my bare skin, and I throw my arms out for balance. “I don’t know how you expect this to beat me,” I tell her, slashing through the vines with my daggers.

They don’t stop growing, faster than thriving weeds. One smacks my arm, leaving behind irregular rows of cuts. Her voice trembles as she says, “I don’t want to beat you. I just need to keep you away from her. Please, Cyn. Turn around and go back home.”

“Avedor is my home. I won’t let you take it.” I throw my first dagger. Her vines surge and wrap around the dagger before it can strike.

Maeve lunges. She jabs, and I block with my forearm. I move in for an uppercut, and she takes the hit, then strikes with her own. As I stagger back, she hesitates, her lavender eyes wide with worry.