Page 24

From the veil of smoke and dust emerged something Fenrir swore was a dream. A nightmare dulled by age, an impression of a memory that he’d been all too grateful to forget alongside the rest of what life had been like in the Rim.

Figures in white, cloaks as pale as gossamer, faces gray and empty, featureless masks Fenrir could only describe as—

“—G—ghosts.” Beside him, Farris took a step backward.

“Run, both of you.” For the first time in months, Fenrir reached for his sword. “Take who you can and—”

She emerged from the dust, trailed by a cloak that painted the sky pale, her skin the color of bleached shale, tinted blue where the shadows deepened under her hood, golden eyes honed so fiercely on his he almost didn’t see it—the length of a sword, its razor edge black as a moonless night.

Fenrir got his bracer up just in time.

“Run!” he roared again, unable to turn away, staring into eyes the color of a dying sun—down a sword as long and thin as it was sharp and—and caustic.

Like the Netherflame Orpheus has drained from the world, the sword ate through his bracer with an angry little hiss, gray crawling across the leather in a slow path of decay.

Behind, Red’s shout choked off, the pounding of retreating steps muffled by the buffet of wind against his face. Fenrir sucked in a breath and fell away from the sword—away from the dust—away from everything he never expected to see again. A crack in the facade of reality he’d been too quick to patch. Too eager to forget.

Where in all hells was Orpheus?

The cloaked figure glided forward, moving without the halted weight of gravity—words deeply accented with a tongue Fenrir couldn’t place. “You know me, Ama?”

No, of course he didn’t—did he?

“Who—”

Sharpened canines bared with her snarl, and this time he got his sword up. Metal squealed against metal, his blade holding up to the caustic black material effortlessly. Amber eyes searched first him, then his sword.

“Myrkur steel? A fair match, then.” A grin split her face and crinkled her eyes, then the figure side-stepped his guard. Fenrir followed with all the speed he could summon—a staggering amount considering his size and build—but the woman—warrior—elf was faster. She slid through space without the resistance of time, pale cloak a whipping tail in his peripheral, sword reappearing as quickly as Fenrir could get his guard back up.

“You’re fast,” the stranger breathed. “He did not lie about your skill.”

“Who didn’t—”

Darkness descended, edged violet where the sword cut close enough to brush his hair.

Fenrir blinked stupidly when two golden strands spiraled off into the wind.

“Never mind,” he growled, “that’s a line you can’t uncross.”

He traded speed for power, precision for chaos, not so much pressing as charging past the elf’s defenses. One immovable force hit another and the jolt of exchanged forces carried through his shoulder with a bone-rattling shiver. The elf barely flinched, heels slipping inches back, hot breath hitting his cheek with a choked-off laugh when he wrapped an arm around her neck and squeezed.

“You think brutal strength will overpower me?” Her voice went low, her breath a whisper. Fenrir couldn’t see her sword, but he felt the micro shift of her stance, the dip of weight back that indicated she was readying a strike for the flank he’d left wide open. But that was fine. That was what he wanted. The more distracted she was, the less attention she’d pay to what he had planned. Fenrir adjusted his grip and closed what little distance remained, body pressing in with enough strength that he could feel the swell of her chest when she breathed. “You will find I am not so easily crushed as you humans.”

Fenrir grinned. “Crushed a lot of humans, have you?”

“Not nearly as many as you.”

One golden eye caught his through a loose strand of cold white hair, like a sun setting over the shadow of a snowy tundra. Fenrir did not budge.

“Oh, is it the moral high ground you hold?” He crowded in, elbow angling out to catch the edge of her blackened blade on his bracer again—his brute strength keeping her planted where she stood, the only ground given up behind her, eating away at those few feet between them and the edge of the stage. Just a little closer. “Because it certainly isn’t the physical.”

Fire flared in her eyes, hot enough to burn. He dug the pommel of his sword into her sternum, pushing for an angle he couldn’t reach when her sword caught in the crook of his elbow. He ground his teeth as the blade sawed through, muscle giving way to a slippery heat between his forearm and bicep. But that was it. She couldn’t get any deeper. Sword held at bay by the close space they kept, Fenrir locked the elf close and committed to his plan.

Dust curled over the edge of the stage, bubbling up like a pot of steam set to boil. He had maybe ten seconds before it went off again.

The elf’s voice shook when Fenrir shoved forward.

“You stole from me, human—my glory, my honor, my chance. Stole it all without a thought, and that cannot be forgiven!” She rallied against him like Fenrir was to blame for everything wrong in her hells-forsaken life and not—well, who the fuck even knew.