AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Morgan advanced, sword drawn, the solid weight of her blade like an extension of her arm, the justice of her fight pushing away any doubts. Any hesitation.
And coming closer saw with mingled relief and sorrow the dead man’s face. Still young. Still lifeless. But not Cam.
One more twist of his wrist and Cam would have secured enough give in his bonds. Hard to do without altering Rastus. But not impossible. Besides, from the few fearful moans and prayers for deliverance he heard behind him, the traitorous bastard remained completely focused on the doings at the far side of the room. Not on him.
He chafed at the thick rope, the flesh of his wrists tearing, the sticky blood from the cuts slicking his hands.
And then he was free. Unarmed, but free.
But even as he slid his wrists out of their restraints, a movement caught the corner of his eye. A rise and fall of Brodie’s chest? A twitch of his fingers?
Had Doran actually succeeded?
Cam took opportunity as it came. He’d not get another such.
Rolling to his right, he came up swinging. Rastus going down with a whoosh of stunned surprise.
But the fight hadn’t completely left him. He struggled for the pistol caught in his holster. Came up instead with a knife. His actions quick and clever, but not near enough to stop Cam.
Behind him, the sounds of battle rose and fell. But all Cam’s focus was on the bastard who’d turned on him. Smashed him over the head. Thought he could best him.
None had fought and survived the assassin, Sin. They’d all died with his name a curse upon their lips. His pitiless stare their last glimpse of life.
It would be the same with Corporal Rastus.
He lunged, the knife ripping through Cam’s coat. Again. And again, the blade catching flesh, a searing slash of heat grazing Cam’s ribs.
Did Rastus really think he could win? That he even had a chance against him?
Cam dodged the next attack. Drove in, catching Rastus’s wrist. Bending it until the knife clattered to the ground.
The ground beneath his feet shook, dust gritting his eyes, tipping barrels, scattering boxes. The air seemed to grow thick, the room’s walls pressing in on them. It was all he could do to keep his feet.
But if he was having difficulty, so was Rastus.
His hand fumbling for the pistol, he scurried for the exit even as Cam lunged for the loose knife.
The pistol’s report slammed through the room with a gut-loosening roar at the same moment Cam released the dagger, threw himself down and to the left.
Rastus’s aim was good. The bullet slammed into Cam’s shoulder.
Cam’s aim was better. The knife ended hilt-deep in Rastus’s chest.
Doran lowered his head, stared out at her from beneath heavy brows. And Morgan felt that same compression in her chest as he strove to use her own power against her. The spell’s feeding slowed. Stopped. The parasitic magic of the nownek glas crushed under the combined weight of Doran, Morgan, and all the Other of London.
“It’s begun,” Doran said, from the lipless orifice that had been a mouth. He gestured to Brodie, whose sightless eyes stared up at her as black as death. “My first recruit in my army of Undying. The Fey will take notice now. Realize they’re not the dominant race any longer. A new order has arisen.”
Morgan’s sword came up, her tattooed arms flexed in anticipation, her stance one prepared for battle.
Doran merely laughed, yanking Neuvarvaan from Brodie’s body with a wet suck that made her want to throw up. “You desire to be next?”
Doran raised Neuvarvaan. The sword no longer held the deathly green glow as if lit from within. Instead, light seemed to be drawn into the blade, swallowed by the dark power of Andraste’s sword. Causing it to grow. Stretch. Feel its new strength. Its new creation.
The world tilted on its axis. The ceiling above, the floor beneath, the slime-dripping walls, all a whirl of color and sound, and then she felt nothing. Heard nothing. Saw nothing as if she’d been blasted into the emptiness of a Fey passage between worlds. Stranded outside of place and time.
She opened her mouth on a silent scream. Knew the madness of such an entrapment would claim her in a matter of minutes.
But they were minutes she could use to fight back. With the only weapon she could think of. If Doran had shown her it was possible, Uncle Owen had given her the means.
