An Artificial Night

“Oh, but you are,” he said. “You’re lost. You can’t get there or back again; not anymore. Now close your eyes and let me take you home.”


Home? Home. It sounded like a wonderful idea; all I had to do was close my eyes, and he’d take care of everything else. He’d make the world everything it was meant to be. I knew I was bleeding. I knew his home was nothing but enchantment and lies. It still sounded right, and I was so tired . . .

I lowered my head, shivering. I’d have the strength to try this once; if I failed, all bets were off. “Yes,” I whispered. “Take me home.” Blind Michael straightened and removed his hand from my cheek, confident again now that he’d won me back.

That was what I’d been waiting for.

He stepped away and I lunged, scrabbling in the dust. The ground had no texture; it was just mist. Behind me, he laughed. “What are you doing, little changeling? What are you hoping to find?”

My hand hit something and I grabbed it blindly, hoping. There was a brief, stabbing pain in my forehead as the taste of blood filled my mouth, and then my candle was bursting into flame, bright blue and gleaming like a star through the dissolving mist. Jackpot. I stood and turned to face Blind Michael, wiping the blood out of my eyes with my free hand.

Every visible inch of me was covered in blood, running from the nearly countless cuts covering my body. It was getting harder to focus, and not because of anything that he’d done; the Blood Road demands its tolls. “I will not go with you,” I hissed.

He looked almost frightened. Good for him. Sylvester’s sword was lying in the dust between us; he stepped toward it and I advanced to meet him, the candle held in front of me like a shield. “Do you really think you can threaten me?” he demanded.

It would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t been shaking. “Yes,” I said, and smiled. My mouth tasted of blood, and for once, that was a reassuring thing. As long as I could taste the blood, he couldn’t catch me.

Blind Michael lunged, going for the sword. He was closer than I was, and so I didn’t even try to beat him; I jumped back instead, grabbing my knife from Acacia’s lap. “Come on, Michael. It’s not even a fair fight. You’re older and stronger than I am. Now take me down!”

He clutched Sylvester’s sword, expression telegraphing his unease. When was the last time anything truly frightened him? The Riders were whispering in the darkness, but none of them were stepping forward to help him. He was fighting me alone. “You’re beneath me,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“Doesn’t sound like you believe that,” I said. Baiting him was fun, but I didn’t have time for fun. I relaxed enough to let his borrowed eyes tell him my guard was down, and then lunged.

It’s hard to fight what you can’t see, and Blind Michael couldn’t really see me. He had a hundred borrowed perspectives to use, but he was missing the most important one of all: his own. He swung wildly as I approached, and I didn’t even try to block. The sword hit my upper arm, opening a long, shallow cut between my shoulder and elbow. It was a glancing blow—it hurt, but not badly, and it wasn’t going to be crippling. Good. My own attack depended on him thinking he could win, if only for a moment. He thought he had the upper hand; I could see it in the way he let his blade dip, not bothering to brace for a parry.

My shoulder hit him in the chest, bowling him over. He hadn’t been expecting that. Idiot. I had nothing but a knife, while he was wearing armor and had a sword—where, exactly, was the benefit in attacking him directly? Disarming him was a much better approach.

He hit the ground hard, Sylvester’s sword skidding out of his hand. I landed on his chest, bracing my knees against his upper arms and pressing the edge of my knife against his throat. “What does it take to kill a god?” I asked, coldly.