Page 63 of A Thief Among Fae

Then a jet of flames blasts toward me, and I fall onto my back to dodge it. The air above me wavers with stinging heat. A fire-wielder dressed in the same armor as Gashil springs out from between the trees. The fire confirms she’s real. Another sphere of flames curls between her hands.

That means Gashil is the illusionist. How could he be so powerful?

Swords clash again behind me. “Your ghosts have disappeared,” Desmond says with a ruthless lilt that makes me shiver. “Ran out of magic, Gashil?”

“Not yet.” A low, raspy laugh violates my mind. It drowns out my thoughts, echoes between my ears, and I resist the urge to cover them. A clammy shiver slides down my back.

I lunge away as flames barrel toward me. When I scramble to my feet, the fire-wielder runs into the shadows and banks right. I whirl around, searching for her. Where is she?

The knife I dropped glints in the faint moonlight. I levitate it to me. My pulse pounds. Blades clash, Desmond and Gashil still locked in battle.

“Your attachment to your human pet makes you weak,” Gashil taunts Desmond.

“Call her that again, and you’ll feel your skin rot off your bones,” Desmond snarls. Their blades clash.

I press my back against a tree, clenching the knife as I watch the shadows.

Gashil laughs. “Did you know my fire-wielder likes to play with her prey?”

Desmond’s rage burns through my veins like liquid fire as he warns, “Touch her, and you die. I’ll make this forest your grave.”

“Aren’t you dramatic?” Gashil lunges out of Desmond’s reach and unsheathes a second sword. The one in his left hand is curved, a sharp stainless steel forged to slay. The other has a duller sheen and lacks the blue-gray tint of steel. “Do you like it?” he asks, glancing at me. “It’s iron. No metal is better for slaughtering fae.”

Desmond slashes, again and again, forcing Gashil to defend with both blades.

“What are you?” I ask, still watching for the fire-wielder, still terrified.

“The last voice you’ll ever hear,” Gashil purrs with malice. “And before you die, I want you to know that your prince is no innocent fae. Helping him is certain death for everyone you hold dear.”

A knife soars at me from between the trees. My magic halts it halfway, and I thank the war goddess that Desmond made me practice that. It’s my blade now. But it’s larger and heavier than the guild’s, and my aim is already poor against moving targets.

Two fistfuls of fire flare behind Desmond. The fire-wielder rolls them across the grass, and the dry autumn leaves burst into flame, trapping Desmond between the twin lines. It cuts me off from them.

I run between the trees. If I can’t attack head-on, I need cover. I slink toward Gashil, the crackle of burning brush hiding the sound of my careful footfalls. His deranged laughter echoes in my head as he duels Desmond.

The fire-wielder searches, swiveling between the trees as the glow of her flames illuminates her sinister mask. She draws nearer, and I move faster, positioning myself behind Gashil.

My pulse pounds as I levitate pebbles and sticks into a swarm. When Gashil dodges again, I’ll be ready.

Now. I pelt the narrow slit in his mask. Gashil staggers, unable to swat the debris away with both hands full. He blocks Desmond’s next blow, but fumbles his counterattack. Desmond knocks the steel sword out of his hand with an upward thrust.

Gashil hisses. He lunges for the sword, but I’m faster, my magic flinging it into the bushes.

Shit. I should’ve brought it to me instead.

The fire-wielder saw the rocks. She sprints, closing in on me.

I run around the trees, glancing each time I hear a foot slide in the grass or a loud clash. Gashil has resorted to defense now that he’s down to one blade, but he’s armored, and Desmond isn’t.

Where is the sword? It’s too dark. I can’t see!

I reach out with my Gift. Rocks, dead tree limbs—There! I feel the sword’s cold weight in the underbrush, and levitate it to my waiting hand.

A bright glow flares around me. Heat singes my hair.

She’s found me.

I whirl, clumsily slashing with the sword.