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He swallowed. “You talk too much, Drakharrow. Are we doing this or not?”

Wrong thing to say. I hit him hard enough to send his sword arm flying wide, then drove my elbow into his mouth. I heard teeth crack. He staggered, blood spilling down his pretty chin. I kicked his knee, and he staggered, snarling and slashing wildly for my thigh. I let him cut me, then I caught his wrist. He screamed as the bones gave way with a wet crunch. I pushed him back, and he slid across the loose stones. I was on him before he could get up again, planting my boot on his ruined arm as he shrieked.

I leaned down. “I was serious about the hand, Silvio.” I severed it at the wrist as he tried to claw at my leg with his free hand.

“Fuck you,” he spat through his blood-filled mouth.

I laughed. “That’s more like it.” Then I drove my sword through him, and I watched the arrogance drain from his filthy, bullying face. I wrenched my blade free, already turning to where I’d seen Pendragon. She was still there, fighting on the far side of the camp.

There was a body laying on the ground near her, a petite high-blood girl. For a moment I thought it was Visha, and my heart went to my throat. Then I saw long silver hair—Larissa. Gretchen was still on her feet, the tall highblood’s fading scar flashing as she moved just out of the reach of Pendragon’s fire.

Fire. I could hardly believe it. Pendragon had fucking fire coming from her fingertips. I grinned so hard it hurt. Always knew my girl brought the fire.

At her back stood Hawl. I watched as the Bearkin swept out his paw and took out two highbloods trying to flank Pendragon. I started toward them, still with a smile on my face. Mortis was falling. It was almost too easy.

Then I froze, spotting movement to their right. Alastor Vane had slunk out of his hiding spot. One of his arms was still bandaged and in a sling, thanks to Visha’s arrow. He stood in the shadow of a high tent with a knife in one hand. He raised it to his other hand and sliced it, wrist to palm. As the blood streamed down his fingers, he chanted something.

My heart jumped into my throat. Blood magic.

“Pendragon!” I roared, moving forward.

But Vane was already pulling his arm free of the sling and raising his hand. Pendragon didn’t hear me. She was too focused on Gretchen.

But Hawl heard.

As Vane flung his blood forward in a spatter, the Bearkin turned and stepped directly into its path. The blood-magic spell struck the bear full in the chest. Hawl’s massive body jerked as if invisible blades had cut through it, running from shoulder to hip and from throat to stomach. The warrior bear made a sound, more shock than pain, then collapsed, their huge body hitting the ground with a boom that seemed to shake the camp.

Vane was still smiling his greasy smile as Sankara came up behind him with a roar and a sweep of his ax. The blood-magic professor’s head left his shoulders, the smile frozen in place.

Medra had finished off Gretchen. The girl’s body lay in a seared, smoking heap.

I’d moved with highblood speed, darting across the camp. I was there as she turned, close enough to see the skin beneath the freckles on her face go pale as she saw the Bearkin. Close enough to see her break. Close enough to catch her as she started to fall.

Chapter 64

FLORENCE

Is this really happening?” Regan murmured from beside me.

Behind us the manor was falling apart—timbers cracking, stones groaning. A fire had started on one of the upper floors. Now flames were running along shattered beams and smoke came bursting out of broken windows.

Good. Let the house of horrors burn to the ground. The servants had plenty of time to get out, and we’d already cleared the dungeon. Even with the burning building behind us, my eyes were fixed on the sky. Above us, Nyxaris and Viktor tore through the air like two nightmares turned flesh. Nyxaris’s Duskdrake was all dark shadow and fury. His vast obsidian wings beat like thunder, black scales flashing wherever the light hit him. He wasn’t fighting from a place of fury, though. His movements weren’t wild or erratic—like Viktor’s. No, Nyxaris knew exactly what he was doing. He was hunting with the confidence of a predator who had no doubt his prey would soon fall. In the air with him, Viktor’s Inferni was a red ruin. Regan had told me that the last time she’d seen Viktor in dragon form one of his wings had been crushed and ragged.

Unfortunately, the ancient highblood seemed to have recovered somewhat. He could fly: Both wings were out. But the corruption that had been apparent on his highblood body was even more prominent on his dragon. Black veins spread beneath scarlet scales. Whatever the corruption was that he’d allowed to taint him, it didn’t seem to be giving him greater powers or increased strength. If anything, it looked like he was as diseased as those infected by the plague—except Viktor Drakharrow just wouldn’t die. Still, one of his wings was half-shredded. Nyxaris must have done that with his claws before we’d come above ground. Viktor flew unevenly but steadily. Fire poured from his jaws in terrible bursts that turned the air white-hot. As he roared fire, embers rained down to the ground with every beat of his wings.

Beside me, Regan’s hand had found mine. We stood on a patch of dry, dead grass, fingers locked together as we watched the battle. While my eyes were focused mostly on the sky, Regan’s were on the ground.

Viktor wasn’t alone. He’d had battalions of guards at the ready, stationed inside and around the manor. Molindra had taken most of them out, but a few still remained. Dressed in red and black, some held swords and others crossbows, while on a stone terrace just outside the manor, some men were scrambling to set up a ballista.

I clutched Regan’s hand. “Look,” I whispered. “They’ll shoot Nyxaris.”

She squeezed my hand back. “Not going to happen.” She pointed at where Kage and Lysander were moving together like a tornado. Kage had shifted into his wolf form, leaving his clothes at our feet when he transformed. The huge Avari wolf stood as high as a horse and was all silver-gray muscle and speed. Lysander ran beside him, silver hair tied back, two blades flashing in his hands. Together they reached the guards at the ballista and cut them down quickly and ruthlessly. They couldn’t help Nyxaris above, but they could clear the field and protect the sky. Every guard they slayed meant one less bolt aimed at my dragon as he fought the red monster above us.

Across the grounds, a single guard raised his crossbow and shot a red-tipped quarrel upward. I held my breath, watching it streak. It missed Nyxaris’s wing by what looked like mere inches. I trembled. “I should be doing something. I should be helping. I should be up there on his back.”

Regan released my hand, slipping her arm around my waist to steady me. “Breathe,” she said, her voice gentle. “You’re barely standing, Florence. This is where you need to be.” Her blond hair flew around her face, tangled from the wind and filled with smoke. She looked back at the fight, where Kage was ripping out the throat of the guard who’d shot the bolt as Lysander drove a blade into another man’s side.

“You could go with them,” I said, my voice small.