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y, dulling the sense of wild exhilaration it gave off. She turned to where Ellery knelt, beckoning her forward.
Ellery crouched, suddenly afraid to climb from her refuge. To face these twin visions of hell.
“It’s madness, Conor,” Aeval shouted.
“How dare you argue with me?” he roared. It didn’t seem as if Conor had done anything, but suddenly Aeval shuddered, her eyes rolling back into her head before she blinked out of sight.
There came a beat of giant wings overhead. “Like plucking sweets from a child,” hissed a strangled voice from behind.
Ellery screamed as a talon raked her shoulder, another clutching her around the ribs. Then the ground dropped away. She twisted far enough to come face to chest with the leathery, black skin of a beast out of a nightmare. Looking down, she saw the hill receding.
“Asher!” Conor shouted and hurled something at them. It spun end over end, moonlight skimming the red glittering edge, flashing on the basket hilt of Conor’s sword just before it struck.
Ellery screamed again.
The sword struck true, piercing the outspread demon’s left wing. It fluttered uselessly as Asher plunged earthward in a lurching descent that carried him back toward the quoit.
Conor met him, retrieved sword in hand, the power of the Old Ones surging through him like a tidal wave. His gaze flashed to where Ellery lay, clutching her arm. An angry graze bruised her cheek. She met his look, and he flinched at the terror in her dark eyes. Scared of him, was she? To hell with her. He’d warned her. Told her how it would be. He’d no time to be gentle now.
Asher stood crookedly, propped against the tallest of the standing stones. Shed finally of his human form, his bat-like wings swept the ground. He nudged Ellery with a rough kick to the side.
She whimpered, trying to back into a shallow of rock at the tomb’s base.
“Is this who you die for, amhas-draoi?” He struck Ellery again.
A black rage clawed Conor’s heart. “No. She is who you die for.” He pushed with mind and spell, unleashing his new-found strengths.
The magic knocked Asher back. Sent him stumbling beneath the tomb’s overhanging capstone, the force powdering Ellery with crumbling earth and rock.
Why didn’t she move? Get out of the bloody way? Why did he care? That part of him faded as other parts took on new life. The woman was no longer his concern. Woman? He meant Ellery. Surely he meant Ellery. She was…The voice in his head drowned out the thought, propelled him forward.
He advanced, not allowing Asher to use the shadows and corners of Ilcum Bledh as sanctuary. The great standing stones seemed to hum with a voice of their own. A heavy groaning as if angered at being disturbed. As Conor ducked under an eroding corner of the lintel stone, Asher struck with his wicked blade. The steel bit into his shoulder, the barbs tearing more flesh as Asher yanked it free. Conor fell to his knees with a cry of shock, only barely parrying another blow that would have severed head from shoulders. He rolled away, coming up onto his haunches, his own sword out to defend against the physical attack.
Asher merely smiled, releasing his black sorcery into the space between them. He’d no need for sword when magic did just as well.
Wounds reopened, blood again flowed, but Conor’s transformation held the worst of the pain at bay. Not even Asher’s tortures could seep through the Fomorii consciousness taking him over.
He fought back, but exhaustion and injury took its toll. No amount of wizardry could stem the blood loss or halt the sizzling lance of dark energy burning through him. Asher would win. He raised his head, met the startled, frightened eyes of the woman. Such anguish amid such fear. Did she sorrow for his loss, or was it the greater defeat? He liked to think it was grief for him. She looked a comely thing.
“Conor,” she whispered, reaching out a hand. He blinked. Was that his name? The voice denied it. But the voice had lied once already. It had told him he would win. That Asher would fall. He shook his head, trying to remember, but so much was already lost. He’d hold tight to the name. Conor. Conor. That would be the last to go.
Asher reached down, lifted the woman by the collar of her gown, wrapped his arm around her neck, pulling her close. His tongue flicked out as he licked her cheek. She shuddered, but Asher grabbed her hair. Yanked it, forcing her head back, lowering his mouth on hers in a grotesque parody of a kiss, his eyes focused not on the woman, but on Conor. Watching him for a reaction.
She struggled, but Asher tightened his hold around her neck, subduing her.
“I shall break her as I broke your sister,” he taunted. “Ysbel took two weeks to die, the flesh finally melting from her bones. This one looks stronger. Perhaps three?”
“You’ll speak of her no more! Do you hear?” Broken words shouted from somewhere behind them. A man tumbling out of the darkness, bringing a knife down in an arcing slash of silver above Asher. And the simultaneous shriek of demon and man.
The momentary break in concentration was enough. Conor lashed out with the last of his strength. Asher met him head-on, the very air screaming with the force of their magics.
The woman between them bore the brunt as dark and bright mingled within her, warping and altering as it twisted through her, silvering her with light, her skin on fire with a blue-white glow.
The stones’ hum became a roar.
The woman stiffened. In a dramatic burst of shadow and sun, the magic exploded out of her. Into the air. Into the ground. Infinitely more powerful. Infinitely more deadly.
Asher dropped her, his body bearing the mark where she’d touched him like a flaming white brand.
