Page 71

Bryaxis seemed intent on a destination, though—its dark cloud shot to the north, to . . .

To the House of Wind. And to the veritable font of fear that lived within it.

Home, it had said.

Nesta was running before she formed a plan, terra-cotta tiles slipping from beneath her flimsy slippers, dress hindering the length of each step. She reached the edge of the roof, catapulting herself across the narrow alleyway and onto the next, scrambling to her feet on the treacherous tiles, skirts getting in the way of her knees, her feet, her ability to rise swiftly.

Like hell would she let Bryaxis reach the mountain. Like hell would she let it get to the priestesses. It had lived with them for centuries—why did it now seek to feed on them? Why had it returned to wreak such pain and havoc?

Nesta cleared the next roof. The next. Every breath singed her throat. One of her arms, she couldn’t bother to discern which, had a tingling numbness. It didn’t matter. She had to make it to the House of Wind first. Had to winnow there; had to find the concentration to do so.

But to stop would give Bryaxis vital seconds ahead of her. And she’d winnowed so much already that her reserves had become a dried-up well.

Nesta landed on the next roof, scaling its steep gable and racing along the narrow strip. She couldn’t winnow herself any farther. But Ataraxia . . .

If she timed it right, if she aimed right—

The edge of the roof revealed a jump that she couldn’t possibly hope to make, not when she was this drained, not in this gown.

Nesta flipped Ataraxia in her hand, muscles aching as she pulled back her sword arm, sleeves tearing down the seams, her legs lurching to a stop.

With mere inches to the drop, Nesta used the whole of her momentum to hurl the sword through the air. And used what remained of her magic stores to rip open a hole in the sky. A sister-hole opened miles away, right in front of that racing shadow.

Spinning, Ataraxia sailed through both holes, emerging as a glimmer of light in the distance, plunging with all that force straight into Bryaxis’s side.

Bryaxis bayed, arching, the sound like thunderheads breaking open—but Ataraxia tumbled earthward. The shadow twisted on itself, screeching toward Nesta with such hate that even from a distance, it seared her bones.

She hadn’t stopped it. Ataraxia had inflicted a mere scratch, and there was nothing and no one left to defend the mountain.

With a mocking snap of that mighty tail, Bryaxis surged onward to the House of Wind.

Even with a sword that could kill the unkillable, Nesta had failed.

A hand grabbed her shoulder. Feyre, white-faced and tear-streaked. Somehow, she’d gotten that ribbon free and tracked Nesta here. Nyx had to be safely away now, likely with Rhys. “Hurry,” her sister begged, and winnowed them.

They slammed into the wards above the House so hard that Nesta’s breath knocked from her lungs. Feyre yelped, “Fuck!” and then they were falling, plunging toward the unforgiving stone fortress far below.

Feyre blasted out a frigid gust of wind, slowing their fall enough that they landed easily on the veranda stones outside the dining room, the glass doors already opening, as if the House were urging them in. Nesta was running before she’d fully set foot on the ground, Feyre at her side.

There was no sign here of the dark, serpentine shadow creature.

“I think Bryaxis is heading for the priestesses,” Nesta managed to say, her voice raspy and nasal-sounding. She barely noticed the numbness creeping through her body as she and Feyre launched through the dining room, into the hall and down the stairs, right down to the library doors.

The silence in the library was worse than screaming. The doors were open, and Clotho stood between them.

“Run!” Nesta shouted, voice breaking.

Clotho held up a gnarled hand.

“Bryaxis is coming,” Feyre panted, her face still etched with the horror of what she’d seen, the devastation that her son had experienced. She didn’t falter one step in her sprint toward Clotho and those doors. “Bryaxis is coming—”

Nesta eyed her sister’s weapons. An Illyrian blade—she’d gotten one of those somehow. But if Ataraxia had done nothing to Bryaxis, then Feyre’s sword would be more than useless.

Clotho still didn’t move. Instead, a piece of paper appeared before her.

“RUN,” Nesta roared, now feet from the High Priestess. No one stood behind her in the library. Not a sound issued from within. Where was Gwyn? She needed to warn Gwyn and rally the other Valkyries—

Words appeared on Clotho’s paper. Skidding to a halt, Nesta had to read them twice to understand.