I block him, bracing his arm in my hand, and with the distance between us lessened, push my shorter blade into his chest. It takes a second effort to drive the tip through the bone, but I feel his body give, my sword sliding deep with ease. I withdraw my blade, and the warrior falls, the light in his eyes dimming.
When I look up, my gaze catches on two men standing in the wood beneath the trees.
The Prince of the East and Vexx.
They weren’t there before.
Though the general looks ashen, fists tight and face drawn in a mask of tempered rage, the prince dons that halo of crimson shadows and wears a sickening grin. It’s as if seeing his men die is blood sport.
He lifts his chin and reaches toward the sky, fluttering his fingers. One of the souls drifts down from the treetops, surrendering as commanded. It hovers over him, a helpless husk.
The prince opens his mouth, and…
Inhales it.
A wave of ecstasy comes over him, chest rising and falling fast, his rapture evident. His eyes close, he licks his lips, and I want to vomit.
When it’s over, the prince lowers his face, and his hooded gaze meets mine.
I lift my sword, on guard.
At first, there’s a moment of surprise in his eyes as he takes me in—I’m not supposed to be here, let alone with a weapon—but his malicious smile returns and spreads.
With a flick of his hand, fire blooms around him, though consuming nothing.
It’s a wall.
A shield.
I can smell the Summerland mage’s magick in the air, laced with his prolonged death, that same scent from earlier in the tent. The aroma of fire, of a sweltering day, of dust and earth.
The prince and I stare one another down. He stands there, a pillar of stone untouched by flame, amusement bright on his face. To him, we are nothing and he is all.
He moves up the embankment, Vexx on his heels, circling the scene, hands clasped behind his back as a trail of scarlet shadows follows. The two men walk right past the singing Witch Walkers. No one else looks at or tracks them. Because they can’t see them.
But I can.
I turn, breathing hard, keeping my eyes on the prowling prince even as my friends and sister fight only footsteps away. This moment reminds me of all the times he came to me, a mirage, watching from some other plane.
Coward. I push that thought through the air the way I did days ago. I pray he hears it, feels it, knows it. He is a coward, letting his men die, hiding in the wings, doing nothing, standing behind his shield of fire stolen from someone else’s magick. Someone else’s soul. All while draped in the cloak of his Shadow World, too scared to face his enemies on his own.
A glimpse of Nephele snags my attention. She jabs her spear into a warrior’s mouth and jerks it out, but then she goes still. Eyes wide. Blinking. She clutches her throat, gasping like an invisible hand has a hold of her neck.
Before I can get to her—or the prince—an Eastlander advances on me. Her moves are so swift that I struggle to match each strike.
I stagger back and almost lose my footing on the embankment, but the Witch Walkers’ song reaches me once more from the fringes of the wood. They lift their voices, singing down power, unaware that a devil lurks so near.
Pure energy falls over me, warm as summer sunlight amid all this cold, awakening something primal deep inside.
Awakening something else too.
With every swing of my blade, the tiny deaths I’ve stolen swell, filling me with a flood I’m not sure I can contain. My heart throbs, brimming with sorrow, misery, hatred, fear, disgust, anguish, adoration, serenity, craving. There are so many emotions that I can’t discern them all, but they boil over, a fount of infinite connection to feelings that were never even mine.
I lunge forward, my grip on Killian’s sword tight and unrelenting, and with sure footing, thrust my blade into the woman’s middle.
Before I can free my weapon, another Eastlander crashes into me. I stumble, and he takes the advantage, lifting his dagger, firelight glinting off its razor-sharp edges and in his equally sharp eyes.
When he brings his arm down, I grab his wrist. He carries so much force that I must release the sword and use both hands to hold him off.
He bears down, pressing me to a knee before him.
“Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah!”
Alexus. I can’t see him, but I can hear him, that velvet voice giving me life, reminding me what I’m capable of.
Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah. Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah.
I think the words, holding them in my mind, and closing my eyes, I reach for all of that emotion, knowing what I want to happen. Willing it to be so. Envisioning it.
The blade I made when we entered Frostwater Wood—I see it now, see it thrusting up through the Eastlander’s stomach into his chest.
Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah!
The pressure weighing down on me slackens, and a crude gasp leaves the man’s body, a gush of wet breath across my face. I open my eyes to find him staring over me with an empty, lifeless gaze, a sword of amethyst light protruding from his gaping mouth.
When his death scent hits me, I lose any mental hold I had on my magick, the sword drifting away, purplish dust mingling with the still-falling snowflakes. The Eastlander topples, and I dodge his weight, slipping in his blood and falling flat on my back.
A noise reaches my ears as I stare at the sky.
Laughter.
I turn my head only to see the Prince of the East. His mockery lies on the edge of another sound—the rising cry of a flock of cawing crows.
The birds burst from the trees, flying high into the dark night, beyond the place where speckles of glowing, floating embers and twirling snowflakes whirl hand in hand. They fly to where the souls of the dead gather.
And inhale them—one by one.
I bolt upright, slipping in blood and snow, landing on my elbow with a bone-jarring thud. I look up and meet Alexus’s green eyes, shining in the night. He’s three strides away, Helena at his back. They each fight with two short swords they must’ve taken from the dead warriors at their feet.
But Nephele is nowhere.
When Alexus’s attacker rears back his hatchet, Alexus raises and crosses his blades over his head and, with deadly force, slices them down, their sharp edges tearing across and through the warrior’s body. Blood sprays the snowy path, and innards fall, more crimson to add to this white graveyard.
The man collapses—the last of the Eastlanders—and in the next blink, Alexus is with me, drawing me to my feet, clutching me.
He fists in my hair, and his lips crush mine. “You beautiful virago,” he says against my mouth. “I’m so godsdamned happy to see you.”
I kiss him again. Touch his cold chest. Feel his pounding heart. Just to make sure he’s really here. He’s smiling, the way Nephele smiled at Colden. His dimple appears, the sight sending enough relief into my heart to heal it forever.