Page 105 of On Brutal Thrones

He intercepts Fake Fenric before the spear can reach the real one, knocking its point aside with his sword. Fenric spins back toward them, his jaw clenched so tightly I can see the muscles working beneath his skin. He thrusts his spear with a guttural snarl, then visibly reins himself in before striking again.

With Thorian fighting alongside him, it doesn’t take long before the copy collapses into that strange, glassy water. I watch it soak into the sand while Fenric drops his spear and crouches beside me. His hands are trembling as he checks that I’m actually all right, and I’m not entirely sure whether it’s from fear for me or the effort of keeping himself under control.

Two down.

One to go.

By the time we find Talon, my relief at seeing him is swallowed by dread.

His fight has gone on far too long.

The two vampires circle each other in a patch of bloodstained sand, both looking haggard. Black blood streaks their faces and soaks into their clothes, and neither seems capable of landing a blow the other doesn’t anticipate. They move with the same exhausted grace, dodging and parrying while insults fly between them almost as quickly as their blades.

Of course Talon would spend his battle with himself trying to piss himself off. I might find it funny if they didn’t both look half-dead.

I glance at Thorian and Fenric, then force myself forward. My throat is throbbing, and I know that this one is going to hurt.

I scream anyway.

Pain rips through my throat, so sharp my eyes water. The sound cracks halfway through, turning raw and ugly, and for one frightened moment I wonder if it’s enough.

Talon turns.

No hesitation. No suspicion.

He just runs.

My chest tightens painfully as Fake Talon immediately goes after him. Thorian and Fenric converge on the copy, while the real Talon races straight to me.

He drops beside me, his hands running over my arms, shoulders, sides. His expression is wild as he searches for blood, a wound, anything that would explain the scream.

I try to tell him I’m fine. That it was a ruse. That I needed to know which one was really him.

Nothing comes out.

My throat produces a pathetic rasp.

Talon’s eyes narrow. Then understanding dawns, followed by a look that tells me he has several things he’d like to say about my plan. Before he gets the chance, the sharp ring of metal pulls both our attention back to the fight.

Thorian and Fenric have Fake Talon between them now. He’s exhausted, covered in blood, but he still fights with the same vicious determination as the real Talon. His sword catches Thorian’s, then Fenric’s spear, but he can’t keep up with both of them. A moment later, Fenric forces him off balance, giving Thorian the opening he needs.

Thorian drives his sword through Fake Talon’s chest.

Beside me, Talon goes completely still.

The copy’s knees hit the sand. Black blood runs from the corner of his mouth, staining a face I know as well as my own. His damp hair falls across his forehead, and I can’t look away. I’ve seen Talon hurt before, but never like this. Never with the life draining out of his eyes.

Then his body begins to change.

His skin turns translucent, his features rippling and losing their shape. Talon watches without a word as his own face melts away, the body collapsing into a rush of glassy water that splashes across the sand. Within seconds, even that begins soaking into the ground.

I glance at Talon.

His expression is unreadable.

Fenric swings the pack from his back and digs through it until he finds our canteen.

“Here.”