She’d fallen to her knees, rocked by what he unleashed. The wind shrieked around her, tore at her clothes even as the wild rain plastered them to her skin.
Through the gale she could see flashes below—the bottles with their blinding light exploding, the slashing lights, then sudden strikes of lightning.
And hundreds, perhaps thousands of those winged bodies spinning, tumbling, falling with screams that rang in her ears.
And yes, he was the storm. He burned as blue and hot as the lightning he called, arms raised high, that wild light flaming from his fingertips.
Even through the deluge, she tasted triumph. They were beating back the dark.
And Nerezza rode through the storm.
Her hair flew black as the night in the wind. Her eyes glowed through the dark, full of hate and fury and terrible power.
She rode a three-headed beast with snapping jaws, long, flicking tongues.
On a peal of laughter, she batted a spear of lightning aside, grabbed another and hoisted it like a lance.
“Do you think your puny powers can stop me?” Her voice boomed, like the thunder. The taste of triumph iced into fear.
“I am a god. I rule the dark, and your light is nothing but a dying flame against my power. I will drink your blood, sorcerer, and suck the seer’s mind empty.”
She glanced down when the light exploded below.
“And when I’m done, I’ll cut the others to pieces for my hounds to feast on. Give me the star, and live.”
His answer was to fling another blue bolt, one that singed the scales of the beast she rode. It shrieked and reared up in pain.
“Then die, and when I feed on you, I’ll simply take what’s mine.”
The lightning turned black in her hand. When she shot it toward Bran, Sasha cried out, the sound smothered by the storm. He pushed a wall of light against it, and the clash had even the rocks trembling.
It hurt him. She felt his pain, felt some of the power he wielded drain. One of those tongues slashed out, barely missed his heart. The effort to block it had him staggering.
“I can’t hold her, Sasha. I need to send you down. Tell Sawyer—”
“No!” On a sudden burst, she shoved to her feet. Though he burned against the dark, she flung her arms around him. “Take what I have, what I am. Take it, feel it. Use it. I love you. Feel it.”
Sasha threw herself open, poured everything she was out for him. She knew his power, the breadth and depth of it, and his courage, his fear—but only for her. Just as she knew Nerezza’s contempt, knew what the god would say before the words followed her roar of laughter.
“Love? Only mortals bow to love. It has no power here.”
You’re wrong, Sasha thought, and shut her eyes. It has all the power.
She felt it flood and flash through Bran, clung to him even as she quaked from it. What he hurled out now exploded like the sun. The beast pawed the air as it tried to escape from it. With eyes gone mad, Nerezza tried to drive it forward, but the next blast had it crying out in shocked pain as it tumbled toward the sea.
Dazed, Sasha saw Nerezza’s hair go gray as the stones, her face as withered as dried leaves before she swirled the dark around herself and vanished.
Now Sasha’s legs went to water, and she slid bonelessly to the ground. Overhead, the stars blazed back to life, and the moon sailed clear and white.
When Bran dropped down beside her, power still shimmered around him.
“I’m all right.” She groped for his hand, and what they’d made together sang along her skin. “Just need to . . . Get my breath back. You hurt her. She’s gone. You hurt her.”
“We.” He pulled her up, cradled her, pressed his lips to her cheeks, her temples, her mouth. “We. You were right, all along, fáidh. I needed you here. I would have failed without you with me.”
“The others. We need to see if anyone’s hurt.”
“Just hold on to me.”
She linked her arms around his neck. “I will. You can count on it.”
* * *
Blood spread like black shadows on the ground, splashed like dirty rain on blooms and blossoms. The scent of it, of sweat, of scorched grass hung in the air. But everyone Sasha cared about stood—battered, but alive.
Riley, her hand resting on Apollo’s head, holstered her gun. “Was she riding a freaking Cerberus? Three-headed hellhound?” she elaborated.
“She was—or her own bastardized version of one.” Bran stepped to her, laid a hand on her cheek, on the angry red burns that scored down it and over her throat. “You didn’t keep back far enough.”
“Tell me about it. Your nuclear holocaust shot me back a good twenty feet. I’m not overly vain—okay, maybe I am. Either way, I’m hoping you can fix it. Hurts like a bitch,” she began, then let out a long breath. “Or did. Thanks.”
He’d used what he could to ease the pain, and would do more once they’d regrouped. “I have potions that will make your face as pretty as ever.”