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I lifted the elven dagger. Never had I desired death, blood, pain, so fiercely. In the next breath, Fione lunged. Our blades met. The sea witch screamed as she tried to hack at my neck. I parried and shoved her back.
Another blow came to my lower spine. I dodged. She met my strike over her head. Each clash, each blow lost power but gained hatred.
Fione made a sloppy cut at my heart, but weak steps fumbled over the uneven soil.
Now. A voice, be it from the sand or sea or wood, I didn’t know, but it bloomed through my mind.
I dropped to my knees, palms splayed over the earth, and cried as fury burst through my pores. The ground heaved as vines, branches, as weeds from the sea, coiled like chains around Fione’s ankles, trapping her in place.
The sea witch screamed in fright. She spluttered a few incantations, drawing out sparks that tried to ignite the limbs tethering her in place. I clambered over a thick root, racing over the surface, blade gripped tightly.
Fione writhed, desperate to break out. She hissed more spells, blackened more roots and vines. A scorch of hot air burrowed in my lungs. I let out a wretched cry and leveled the tip of my dagger against her, carving out the base of her throat.
It was horrifying, witnessing the edge of the elven dagger slice through skin, yet not draw blood. Golden scars veined over her flesh, flowing down her throat, her collar, into her chest.
She cried out, clawing at her breasts and skin until Fione’s pale eyes flickered in stun, remorse, hatred. Until light faded. Neck split open. Fione’s features froze, ever furrowed in a wince as if she might shed a tear, but nothing came from a lifeless gaze locked on the dark sky.
She was gone, rotted from the heart out.
Weak steps took me away from the unmoving form of the sea witch.
Respite lasted for a few moments. Wind bellowed through the trees, slamming against the elven palace. Boards and slats peeled away against the tumult. I spun around when cries of stun rose from the shore down the slope.
By the gods—elven guards doubled over. It looked as though they were retching.
I clung to my bloodied dagger. Panic, harsh and sharp, stacked in my belly. I needed to find my family. As if he’d absorbed my thoughts, Aleksi peeled through the trees.
“Livia!” Blood dripped down his nose, but his arms curled around me. “Gods, I lost sight of you.”
“What’s happening?”
He pulled away and faced the shore. “I don’t know. Their folk started spewing blood. Something shifted here, changed—” Aleksi’s gaze landed on a dead Fione. “Recent kill?”
“Only just.”
“Coincidence her death brought about spewing elven?” We locked eyes and shook our heads, speaking as one, “Doubtful.”
“She’s dead,” I said, a curl to my lip. “Now, at long last, Larsson can fall to the hells.”
Natthaven needed to be taken, Fione needed to die, or the wretched magic protecting Larsson Bonekeeper would never allow him to fall under Erik’s blade.
“Where’s my daj?” I asked.
“Sending his message that the killer of Thorvald stands with Erik Bloodsinger.” Alek’s grin was cruel, almost vicious. He pointed through a gap in the trees.
The sea was chaos. Tides thrashed and spun around sails of crimson, black, and blue, but from the water grew formidable peaks of dark sea floor. Teeth of rock dug between the ships, caging the elven vessel, trapping Larsson.
Now was the time Valen Ferus revealed how he became the king of the Night Folk fae.
Tears burned behind my eyes.Erik, we’re coming.
Gods, I prayed he had Larsson’s head, prayed Sewell, Celine, Stieg, the lot of them were cheering at the sight of those cliffs. He would die there. I’d take nothing less.
“Come on,” Alek urged me forward. “Mira sent up a signal. They need us!”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
THE SONGBIRD
