Page 84 of Death Will Follow

Time slowed as Omen plunged the blade, dragging it through the air. Nova threw her left arm in front of her, her hand gripping the hilt over her father’s. She locked her elbow, struggling to keep him at a distance. She couldn’t hold him off forever, but she didn’t need to.

Omen doubled his efforts, releasing her chin and gripping the hilt with both hands. Leaning his shoulders forward, he exerted more pressure on the blade. Nova’s arm quivered under the weight of him, but she gritted her teeth and positioned her own piece of broken darkblade over her chest. Blood dripped from her palm, rivulets of crimson escaping from between her fingers.

Nova met her father’s gaze a final time. He hadn’t seen her raise her own blade through the murderous delight dancing in the silver swirls of his eyes. She looked to the high ceiling, to an opening in the stone where she imagined moonlight flooded the throne room at night. The morning sky beyond was pale blue and cloudless. When the weight of him pressing down on her became too much to bear, Nova surrendered.

She let her arm slacken and fall, her father falling along with it.

Omen jerked on top of her, a low grunt of surprise escaping his mouth where it came to rest against her ear. He rose above her once more, his face a warped mask of disbelief, fixated on the length of broken blade protruding from his chest, directly over his heart. A thin exhale rushed past his lips as if he meant to speak, but no words took shape. He fell forward again, his large frame coming to rest half on top of her and half on the cold stone floor.

It was only after the effort of shoving her father’s lifeless body off of her own that Nova registered the burning sting above her left breast. Omen’s aim had been true; the Kinslayer hilt jutted out of her, a hand’s width of broken blade buried within. An unbearable tightness filled her chest, and Nova thought she might split open. Instinctively, she gripped the hilt, but something told her not to remove it.

She couldn’t breathe; she was drowning in her own blood. Her gaze wandered around the throne room. The ravens abandoned their roosts along the rafters, disappearing through the opening in the ceiling and into the sky. The earth shook violently beneath her, the fortress of obsidian beginning to crumble around her. But Nova hardly noticed. She heard nothing but a high-pitched tone ringing in her ears. Felt nothing but the searing pain blooming in her chest and the icy numbness gathering in the tips of her fingers and toes.

Blood pooled in her mouth as she strained to sit up. She sputtered, the liquid spilling out of the corners of her mouth, dripping down her cheeks and into her hair. Sleep beckoned sweetly, promising an end to the pain. Her eyelids fluttered, the pull of the darkness gathering at the edge of her vision tempting her to let go. To give up the fight.

Before she yielded to it, a great raven swooped in through what remained of the roof. Nearly the entire ceiling had caved in. The bird grew larger and larger until it was directly above her, gathering her up in its talons. Its enormous wings beat forcefully, kicking up dust in the collapsing throne room and propelling them into the sky.

Nova’s head lolled to the side as they cleared the roof. The Shadow Throne was gone, swallowed up by a gaping hole where it had once sat, the Estate itself disintegrating into nothing and disappearing into the earth.

Cradled in Bryn’s talons, Nova stared at the calm sea below, sunshine dancing like diamonds on its shimmering surface. The creeping numbness stole along her limbs; she no longer possessed the strength to fight it. Her eyes fell shut as the darkness took her.

Thirty-Four

Callan’s knees gave out under the weight of Fawn’s magic, his shoulders shuddering with the effort of holding it at bay. Some of the lesser Nobles hadn’t withstood the unceasing assault; screams rang out from further down the line, the smell of singed fabric and flesh flooding his nostrils. Sweat poured down his forehead as he roared through clenched teeth, desperate to protect however many he could for as long as he could behind his wall of ice. Lycane and yaesira slipped through breaches in the shield wall, decimated by Fawn’s black liquid flame. Callan held fast despite the sounds of the battle carrying on around him: growls, wails, and the grisly, wet smack of steel meeting flesh.

Time slowed, his awareness narrowing down to the weariness settling in his bones, the burn ravaging his muscles. Bit by bit, he was losing the fight. How long until he drained himself entirely? Until his magic consumed every last shred of his life force?

Brumal, I beg: Let me live long enough to see Nova safe.

The thought of his mate filled him with renewed energy. Drawing from a deep well of strength, he poured it into his magic. Remarkably, Fawn’s magic drew back—just enough to allow him to adjust his stance, to stand taller. The swirling blue haze clouded his vision, but the shouts of the Aemorian forces, tentative but optimistic, bolstered him. Gave him hope that he and the other Nobles had made progress.

Fawn.

A heaviness took root in Callan’s chest, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and mixing with the sweat beading down his face. He set his jaw, steeling himself against the notion that any ground gained was ground ceded by his cousin. Her power retreated further, his own surging forth with the sudden loss of resistance. He called her name again, the cry scraping along his throat.

All at once, Fawn’s magic was gone. She was gone. Callan dropped his hands, doubling over and bracing himself on his knees, nearly succumbing to exhaustion, heavy and bone-deep. When, at last, the haze faded from his vision, he rose to his full height. The Nivalian warriors still held the shield wall, though a glance to the left and right confirmed what he’d feared. Some had been unable to withstand the punishing force of Fawn’s gift. Wide sections of the barrier smoldered in the sand, reduced to embers and allowing beasts and mercenaries alike to pass through.

Callan scrubbed a sleeve over his face and peered through a gap in the wall, surveying the open expanse of desert before him. There, he spied his cousin’s crumpled form upon the ground. The Enchanted swarmed in from both sides, blocking Fawn’s body from view. The enemy moved as one, a rippling, ashen wave spilling across the sand.

With a roar, Callan unsheathed his sword, the tip of his blade pointed toward the sky. If the enemy was an unrelenting wave, he would be a boulder upon the shore; let them see how long they’d have to batter him before he’d break.

When the Enchanted drew near enough for him to see the glint of sunlight in their black, lifeless eyes, Callan shouted a final command to fight. Propelled by the senseless loss of his cousin, he shoved his way along the line through what remained of the Aemorian forces. The Enchanted struck the shield wall to his right, but he wouldn’t be hiding behind it. Callan sprinted for the nearest opening and burst onto the battlefield, meeting the enemy head-on.

His consciousness drifted away from him, abandoning him entirely as he swung his sword in a wide arc, beheading one of the Enchanted before burying his blade in the chest of another. Bodies fell before him as he pushed through the enemy ranks, a trail of carnage collecting in his wake, his blade stained with the slick, black liquid oozing from their wounds. It wasn’t the first time the mindless state consumed him in battle. Whether a gift from Brumal, helping him vanquish his enemies, or his own mind protecting him from the full awareness of the violence he inflicted, he cared not. His rage carried him through the swarm, cutting down anyone in his path.

One of the Enchanted charged him. Once a burly Nivalian from the look of him, his tree-trunk legs ate up the distance between to Callan with unnatural speed. Callan raised his sword and prepared to separate the enemy from his head.

When the warrior was only a few strides away, pain pierced Callan’s chest, halting his breath and sending him to his knees. Crouched on the ground, a moment passed while he choked on air, fingers digging into the sand. When the pain ebbed to a dull ache, Callan sat back on his heels, looking down as his hands roamed over his body. There was no blade. No arrow. Nothing marring the chest plate of thick brown leather.

Wide-eyed, Callan took in the battlefield around him. The Enchanted no longer attacked from every direction. Bodies littered the ground, but not all were dead. Folk from every Court lay in the sand, weak and disoriented, but enchanted no more. Restored to their former selves.

Celebratory shouts filled the air, faraway at first, but soon, the Aemorian forces crowded around him, embracing one another and beginning to tend to the folk who had been imprisoned by Omen’s thrall. Callan rose to his feet, absently turning in a slow circle. Tilting his face to the sky, he searched for the repera and found the great beasts reduced to flecks of black against pale blue as they fled. Lycane and yaesira disappeared over the horizon in the distance, returning to whatever dark dens they called home.

A smile crept across his face. They had won.

He whirled around, racing past the survivors and the fallen toward the bit of higher ground where he’d left Nova, praying she was safe. The dull ache over his heart spread through his chest as he ran, and he halted at the base of the dune, shoulders heaving as he tugged at the collar of his chest plate. Glancing ahead, he found Riven approaching. He managed two steps up the incline before he had to stop to catch his breath once more, rubbing his fist over his heart.

“Where . . .” He couldn’t get enough air. “Is she?”