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Amaya—
Close, she growled. Close.
“What sort of agreement?” I spat. “And why the hell would you even expect me to believe you’d actually uphold your end of it?”
“I don’t expect trust,” he said. “But I do expect that you’ll remember I hold your friend’s life in my hands and that you’ll control not only your own need to kill me, but that of your reaper’s.”
“In exchange for what?” I spat.
“In exchange for the key, of course. What else matters?”
Indeed, what else did? For him, my father, the Raziq, and even Azriel, there was nothing else. And if Lucian thought I could control the actions of any of them, then he was seriously insane.
“I can speak only for myself and Azriel, but we both know there are other players in the mix who want the key just as much as you.”
Ready soon, Amaya said.
Anger—and the need to kill, to rent and tear—surged, and I could almost taste his death on my tongue. And I knew that this time, it wasn’t Amaya’s need, but my own. I wanted his blood on my hands, wanted to feel his life slipping away, wanted to watch the realization of defeat dawn in his eyes.
“With the keys in my possession, neither your father nor the Raziq will be a problem,” he said. “Because they will not move against me until they are sure of the keys’ location.”
I pushed to my feet but made no other move to give away my readiness to react the minute I got the all clear from both Amaya and Uncle Quinn. God, please, let him contact me soon.
“You’re overconfident, Lucian, and that’s never a good thing.”
“I have lived many lives in this world in that state, and I have always surpassed my own expectations.” He glanced at his watch again. “And now, I believe, a phone call is required.”
Amaya!
Through, she screamed back. Attack!
At the same time, Uncle Quinn’s lilting tones said, We have her. She’s safe and well.
As Lucian dug his phone out of his pocket, I launched myself. There was a brief flare of magic, a moment of resistance, and then I was free and running. He looked up and swore, the phone smashing to the stone floor as he brought his sword up. Steel clashed with steel, and Amaya screamed, the sound one of fury.
Magic, she screamed. Burns.
I guess it was no surprise that Lucian had a weapon prepared against Amaya, given he was well aware I never went anywhere without her.
I pivoted and lashed out with a booted foot, hitting him square in the chest and forcing him backward. He laughed—laughed!—then brought the long knife down. I jumped back but not fast enough, and the knife slashed through my boot and into flesh. The warmth of blood began to flood my boot, but I ignored it, ducked under another blow, then thrust upward with Amaya. He twisted out of her way, but not fast enough, and her sharp steel skated along his ribs, instantly drawing blood.
More, she screamed, her noise within my head and without.
Lucian’s eyebrows rose. “It talks?”
“Yeah,” I bit back, “and she’s eager to drink in your death.”
He avoided another blow, then lashed out with a clenched fist. I ducked but not fast enough. It skimmed my chin and rattled teeth, and I almost missed his follow-up. I jumped over the sweep of his legs, then raised my sword and brought her down hard. He twisted, so rather than splitting his head open as I’d intended, it hit his shoulder. A shudder ran through her steel; then blood sprayed and his arm was swinging uselessly from the few remaining bits of flesh and tendons that Amaya hadn’t severed.
And just like that, all his amusement was gone.
What remained was anger. Anger that was deep and dark and utterly, utterly inhuman.
“For that, you will wish you were dead.”
“You can’t kill me,” I retorted. “You can’t find the fucking keys without me, remember.”
“I never said I would kill you,” he replied softly. “I merely said you will wish for it.”
