My knife is on the ground where it was knocked from my hand in the blast. I snatch it up. Wren is still on all fours, sweat pouring off her as she struggles for breath, trying—and failing—to access her Xia state. I slip my arms around her and press a kiss to the top of her head. Then I draw back. Her eyes meet mine, then slide down to where I’m raising my dagger.
There’s a flicker of confusion. But before it can fully take hold, her eyes snap to the left—and go wide.
The Shadow Sect shamans have lowered to their knees. Their black robes billow around them. Each soldier has taken the arm of the shaman to their left. As one, the shamans reach into their robes and draw a long, slim dagger. Firelight glints off the blades as, in perfect unison, one hundred shamans lift their knives to their throats—
And draw them firmly across.
I let out a strangled cry.
Knife, blood, magic.
The exact method I was moments from using myself.
The shamans slump, ruby torrents pouring from their opened necks. But just as the blood reaches the floor, it stops.
Horrified, I flash back to Hiro on the Czos’ island. Like then, the shamans’ blood begins to eddy, traveling in a loop to where the soldiers hold their limp hands. The liquid slinks higher, moving over the soldiers until each of them is armored in blood.
Shining red coats their skin and fur. It crawls up over their chins. Seeps into their mouths.
Some of the fighting dies as both armies take in the nightmarish sight. Along with the wasp-buzz of magic, a high-pitched ringing grows, and I clap my hands over my ears.
The blood from the emptying shamans spreads over the soldiers’ faces in scarlet masks, glazing over their eyes, until they share the same awful red stare. One of the soldiers—a hulking crocodile demon right across from us—opens his mouth in a grin. His razored teeth drip blood.
As one, the Shadow soldiers let go of the dead shamans.
The second the bodies hit the ground, they charge.
THIRTY-FOUR
LEI
WREN AND I CLAMBER TO OUR feet as the wave of Shadow soldiers strikes.
Wren is back in her Xia state. It must be excruciating, but the threat of the blood-powered soldiers is powerful enough motivation. The air—already ringing, singing, bursting with magic—whips about us in a frenzy, lashing out in ice-cold flares and flame-hot blasts. Smoke is caught up in it, showering everything in spinning whorls of ash.
I fight instinctively. Wildly.
Action. Reaction. All fire, no fear.
I don’t have time to be scared. I barely have time to think.
Before, Wren handled most of the demons, but now each one takes her full attention, so I’m left to face others on my own. I swerve and duck the towering demons’ weapons, attacking with quick slashes to their ankles, groins, wrists—anything I can reach. I hack until they fall to their knees, then finish them with a cut to the throat or a thrust to the heart, the now-familiar sensation of my blade digging through sinew.
Ketai and Kenzo have closed in to provide Wren and me with more protection, each of them locked in combat with one of the blood-armored soldiers. Khuen’s arrows stud the demons as we fight, though they barely seem to register the hits.
“Lei!” Ketai yells, face contorted with effort as he holds off an immense gorilla demon. “Do it! Now!”
Now, now, now!
The word throbs with the rapid trip of my heart. I know he’s right. The Shadow Sect is too strong, and Wren is too tired to hold on to her Xia state much longer.
She’s drifted some way off, fighting two Shadow demons at once. Even with her ferocious skill, she’s lagging behind.
I lurch in her direction, climbing over the bodies of fallen soldiers.
“Knife, blood, magic,” I pant. “Knife, blood, magic. Save her, so she can save them.”
I’m almost there. Blood and cinders spin in the flurry of Wren’s magic. Bracing myself against her power, I launch into a run, her name filling my lungs—
Someone slams into me.
I’m thrown to the ground. A wiry reptile demon with moss-colored scales and slatted eyes pins me.
“Sith,” I snarl.
The tip of his qiang glints in the flamelight as he raises it, exactly like he did one year ago, with my sweet dog Bao on its end.
“It’s been a while, girl,” he sneers, a pink tongue darting over his lipless mouth. “Though I still recall exactly how you taste.”
Revulsion twists through me. Even before the King, Sith was the first demon who touched me, who made me feel small and scared and ashamed.
I bare my teeth at him. “And I still remember how you cowered in front of General Yu. But you’re right. It has been a while. It’ll be nice to see your fear once more.”
Sith lunges with a hiss.
I roll out of reach of his spear. When he dives again, I use a move Shifu Caen taught me, rolling under the lancing point of his qiang and exiting with a jump, knocking the spear and rendering him off balance. His arm flies up just enough for me to thrust my dagger into his armpit.
He lets out a yowl of pain. He stumbles back, trying to knock me away. I weather his blows and keep jerking the blade, blood gushing over my fingers.
Sith falls back with me straddling his chest—the opposite of the position we were once in.
“Look at me,” I say, grabbing his collar. “It’s only polite to look at a girl in the eyes when she kills you.”
His reptilian eyes—wide with pain and shock—meet mine. I free my knife and, lowering my face right over his, thrust it into the underside of his chin.
Instantly, his eyes dim. I let go. His head drops back, body limp.
I get to my feet, buzzing with triumph, a dark, delicious satisfaction coursing down my veins, and it takes me a few beats more to notice the immense shadow I’ve been cast in. I look up to find what appears to be a giant bull demon looming over me.
A giant stone bull demon.
Magic has brought one of the pecalang that guard the main gate to life. It’s carved from the same marble as the palace walls, ripples of magic swirling within its stone skin. It takes a clunky step closer and swings its enormous head. Then, with an earsplitting roar, it draws back a muscled arm—aiming right for me.
Then, with a rush of air that almost knocks me off my feet, the statue’s arm passes over my head, smashing instead into a cluster of Shadow Sect soldiers nearby.
I whirl around to see a group of shamans—Hanno shamans—moving their arms, puppeteering the stone bull’s movements as one unit.
The statue lurches across the grounds. Its huge feet and fists aim for royal soldiers as members of our army fling themselves out of the way.
All of a sudden, there’s a blur of jet-black rock.
The second statue has come to life—and is charging for the first.
They collide with a colossal crash.
A clearing forms as the two pecalang wrestle. Lightning illuminates their grinding marbled muscles, the fiery glow of their eyes, their insides lit with magic. With each punch, chunks of rocks smash to the ground. There are shrieks as some fall on the legs of unlucky soldiers, while others are silenced before they have time to scream.
The Hanno shamans move in perfect synchrony, chanting furiously. But even I can tell their energy is fast draining; their skin is bone white, sweat pouring down their straining faces.