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Tricked. Because he’d been distracted by thoughts of Chantel.
Did the males approach her? The desire to gaze upon her amplified as a gut-wrenching thought occurred. Kaysar had left her undefended.
Fear grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. If the kings reached her before he did...if they harmed her... Not her. Anyone but her.
Eye knew to provide him with a mental image if trouble arose. But what if she couldn’t?
Pounding footsteps registered, more guards rushing in his direction. Kaysar had a choice. Take the tunnel wherever it led, hoping to catch the royals, or return to the castle, where the two were probably headed.
Castle, he decided, already speeding across the campgrounds, barreling past anyone in his path. When he cleared the tents , a cool wind resisted his momentum. He cut through the bluster with fierce determination matched by few.
Kaysar hated himself for leaving Chantel. His war could’ve waited another few weeks or months. Instead, he’d opted to prove to them both that he had the strength to stay away from his mate whenever his foes neared.
Fool. He flew along the plains. Leaped over naturally generated fires that sparked from the ground, throwing embers. Smoke stung his eyes and clogged his lungs. All had better be well at home. Not one scratch on her.
He’d never desired a female of his own. Now, he couldn’t imagine his life without her in it.
A ragged bellow broke from him. Just get to her. All will be well.
The second Kaysar moved into range of the mountain, the ability to flitter powered up. Between one step and the next, he entered the castle. A unique but familiar charge electrified the air, and an emotion he hadn’t experienced since childhood gripped him. Sheer, unadulterated terror.
Goblins. Hundreds of them. Where?
Where was Chantel?
His thoughts sharpened. Claws at the ready. Dagger in hand. Kaysar flittered through the rooms. No sign of Chantel. No hint of goblins. Not that he could see them unless they embodied. And they would embody. Their only means of feeding.
Goblins couldn’t possess royals with Kaysar’s power, his mystical superiority acting as a physical shield. Yet, despite his dominance, his glamara had little effect on the beings. Compelling one, much less an army of them, required time and toil.
A brush of putrid cold against his cheek—there. Kaysar spun and slashed, his claws raking through a goblin’s throat as it materialized. The dagger finished the job; the body dropped with a thud. Thick black blood gurgled onto an elegant rug.
Goblins remained interconnected with a hive mind. If one caught sight of you, all caught sight of you. Come and get me.
As he waited, he surveyed his kill, his lip curling in disgust. A bag of rot and bones. It had pitted gray skin oozing with pus, razor-sharp teeth as big as sabers, and claws longer than his own. Unlike the others, this one had an oddly shaped patch of mold growing from the side of its skull. Four interconnected lines, creating a W. Or an M.
A waft of stink—Kaysar twisted, slashing again. Thud. More cold. Twist, slash. Again. Then again.
And so it begins. A cold stench enveloped him as the spirits crowded him. Usually he experienced glee as he warred. A temporary reprieve from internal struggles and obsessions. Today he sought the battle’s end.
He flittered in and out, twisting and slashing as he reappeared. Frigid black blood splattered him as bodies toppled. Always he pushed forward, determined to find Chantel.
As he turned a corner, the number of goblins increased substantially, the hallway arctic. Every breath misted in front of his face. With a snarl, Kaysar attacked. Slashing—without—pause.
A vibrant green vine whooshed past him, snaring a goblin. Kaysar paused mid-battle, bathed in relief. Chantel lived! And she’d aided him, despite his abrupt abandonment.
Because she is my partner. My...friend.
Multiple vines snagged multiple goblins, popping off their heads as they embodied. As thick black blood spurted, Kaysar kicked into motion, slaughtering his way through the hallway. The emerald stalks propagated and attacked the goblins, but never turned on him.
Chantel appeared at long last, and he staggered under the weight of his relief. He kept his gaze on her but a moment, fighting, fighting, fighting, yet the sight seared itself into his memory. Hair no longer black, but pink and split into two curling ponytails. A pink-and-white dress covered in bows, lace and blood molded to her torso but flared widely at the waist. The skirt reached just below her backside. Torn white leggings led to stained combat boots.
Gut-punch. She opted not to wear the metal claws.
No longer a team?
She glared at him while wielding her vines, the embodiment of feminine pique. Silent, he worked his way to her side, killing any fiend who neared her.
When he moved to buffer Chantel from an incoming strike, she lunged to safeguard him, putting herself in the line of fire. A goblin raked its claws across her collar, and she cried out.
