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Kharis lets out an ear-splitting screech. I clap my hands over my ears, pressing them to my head as hard as possible, falling to my knees. Humans closest to the dais collapse, blood leaking from their ears, ruby tears streaking their cheeks.
The guards turn on the hostages. I pull in a breath to shout a warning, only to swallow it down when the captives shift.
Their arms and necks elongate and legs shorten. White feathers burst out, covering their bodies. The night-forged silver collars slip from their elegantly curved necks.
Swans.
The soldiers seem more surprised than I am. They do not react until the birds are already attacking, using their beaks to distract as their wings beat hard enough to break bone. The guards fall to them in no time, writhing in agony. A few change back into their human form to wrest the weapons from their captors and dispatch them.
Decoys—they were decoys.
I exhale my bated breath and push myself into action, running toward the dais. I need to go after Elizabeth—I need to stop her.
Halfway up the steps, I stop. Many arrows litter the floor, but it’s the one with a green band near the tip that catches my eye. I change direction and weave through the pandemonium.
I snatch up the arrow and snap the shaft so it will fit in my hand. But when I turn, a mob of warring bodies has already coalesced into a wall between me and the door I need to reach.
The flash of Elizabeth’s skirts vanishes through the dark opening, with Kharis following close behind.
I won’t let her get away.
Pushing the material of my skirts back, I unsheathe the dagger strapped to my thigh. As I stand, I feel the strength of Varin’s power flows through me. I strike and slice at any vampire who crosses my path.
Though I am nearly on par with their abilities, progress is slow. For as soon as one enemy falls, another takes their place. I grit my teeth in frustration.
Then, there’s an opening, but I don’t get a chance to take it. A large furry body crashes into me, sending me sprawling. The wolf scrambles up and leaps back into the fray. The impact forces all the air from my lungs. I push up on my hands.
Through a gap between brawling bodies, my gaze lands on Cassius. He’s several yards away, pulling a vampire off a tri-colored wolf. Behind him, a woman reaches for him, fingers skimming his jacket collar.
Razor-sharp teeth sink into first vampire’s leg, keeping him from wrapping his hands around Cassius’s neck for him. The wolf tears into the man until he can no longer fight back.
But the touch draws Cassius’s attention. He looks over his shoulder. A movement—caught too late, like the strike of lightning—nails are over Cassius’s side. They cut through his clothes, sending a spray of blood as they rip into his flesh.
I am in motion before he hits the floor. Blood pooling at his side. I barely register driving my dagger into the vampire’s neck, dragging it down her spine, then shoving her away.
I drop to my knees at his side. All around, the fighting is slowing. Most vampires have fled. Several wolves shift to bind the remaining court members and all others who are quickly surrendering, while others battle against the last few continuing to resist.
I drive my blade into my skirt, cutting off a wide swath, and press it to his side, trying to stanch the bleeding with shaking hands.
The gashes are deep. She tore through the bandage, and down through the wound that was already there. Making it worse. So much worse.
Cassius cringes away from my less-than-delicate touch. I refuse to let up. Pain is preferable to the alternative.
My hands are coated in his blood… and there’s so much of it. “Why aren’t you healing?” I snap, panic making my words harsh.
Cassius blinks through the haze of pain. “Clara,” he says, surprised to see me. He tries to push himself up but can’t quite manage it. “Help me sit.”
Keeping a hand pressed against the wound, I shift to his other side, hooking his arm over my shoulders, and prop him against a pillar.
“I will be fine,” he says, voice thick and watery. “There is no need to waste your tears.”
I swipe at my face. The back of my glove comes away damp, the front soaked through with blood. With a frustrated growl, I force his hand to hold the scraps of my skirt while I yank my gloves from my arms.
“You’re not healing,” I say. It comes out as an accusation. As if he is doing it on purpose. As if I blame him.
Cassius gives me a flirtatious smile. His hand alights on mine, still desperately holding the glistening wet material to his side. His breathing grows more labored with each inhale.
I shake my head, not understanding. He is a vampire. A powerful one at that. He should be healing.
