Thomas picked up the broken wooden bar and slid it back into the rungs. It wouldn’t hold for long, but anything was better than nothing.
Hugh’s face was grim. His cloak was black. His armor was black, too. Clearly he had a theme going. The armor didn’t look like either modern tactical gear or medieval plate. It looked woven, as if tiny metal threads had been somehow made pliant, painstakingly crafted together into a fabric, and molded to Hugh’s muscular frame. The fabric thickened into dense plates, mimicking the large muscles on his chest, stomach, and arms, and flowing over limbs and midway up Hugh’s thick neck. Part of my aunt’s blood armor looked like that, except hers was red. It looked like something my father would make, which meant claws, fangs, and blades wouldn’t cut through it.
I unsheathed Sarrat. It fit perfectly into my hands.
Where to strike? Back of the arm, covered. Inner thigh, covered. Midsection, covered. His face was about the only thing not protected, but he wasn’t going to just stand there and let me take a shot at it. I wasn’t at a hundred percent either. I had a hard time standing.
Hugh’s eyes promised death, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking to the right of me. At Curran.
Curran snarled. His irises went gold. All rational thought fled from his face. His expression turned savage. He grinned, baring his teeth.
Holy shit. Apparently they were happy to see each other.
Hugh reached behind his back and pulled out two short black axes. He pointed one at Curran and roared, “Lennart!”
It was the kind of roar that would cut straight through the chaotic noise of battle. It bounced off Mishmar behind us, and far above the giant birds screeched in alarm.
“Come on!” Hugh screamed.
“Curran?” I asked.
Curran didn’t even hear me. He had already started forward, pulling off his jacket as he moved. The jacket fell on the bridge. Muscles on his back and shoulders bulged under the dark shirt. He broke into a run. Curran was gone. Only the Beast Lord remained.
Hugh gripped his axes. He must’ve decided swords couldn’t do enough damage to Curran, so he went for something that could cleave a limb off in one blow.
“Why isn’t the Beast Lord shifting?” Nasrin murmured next to me.
“No point,” I told her. Curran had fought my aunt with me. He would remember the armor. “Claws won’t penetrate that armor.”
“Shoot anyone who interferes!” Hugh roared and charged.
They tore toward each other. There wasn’t a force on the planet that could stop them from colliding. Here’s hoping the world didn’t end when they hit each other.
I wanted to cut Hugh into pieces. I owed him for Mauro, my broken sword, and seven days in the hole. But Curran owed him for seeing me disappear, for finding out where I went, for running after me across half the country not knowing if I was still alive, and then for fighting his way to Mishmar only to find me half-dead. Curran had a much bigger score to settle.
Blood rushed through my veins. I could hear my own heartbeat. The familiar metallic taste of adrenaline coated my tongue. Come on, Curran. Hit him hard. At least the magic was down.
“Can you take out the gunners?” Thomas asked Andrea next to me.
“No,” she said. “Not while they’re hiding behind the blast shield. I could get one, maybe.”
The two men collided.
Hugh spun the axes as if they weighed nothing and chopped with the right axe straight down, putting all of his power into the swing. Curran blocked the haft with his forearm, but Hugh’s left axe was already moving. The axe head bit into Curran’s stomach and sliced sideways right to left.
No!
The world slowed. I saw the bloody blade of the axe slide free, flinging the fine mist of Curran’s blood into the air. My heart was beating too loud in my head.
Curran dropped his guard. Hugh continued the stroke with his left axe, bringing it up and cleaving with dizzying speed. Curran knocked Hugh’s arm aside before Hugh could bury his right axe head in Curran’s side. Instead, the blade grazed Curran’s side. Move faster, baby. Move. Move!
Curran leaped back. His left side bled. The cut on his stomach couldn’t have been deep, but it bled, too.
Hugh flicked his axes and flung the blood at Curran. Red spray splashed over Curran’s neck and chest. He’d flicked Curran’s own blood at him. Asshole. Hugh smiled. Curran stepped forward, his hands raised, aiming for Hugh’s face. Hugh spun, picking up momentum, and sliced at Curran’s midsection in a horizontal cut with his right axe, leaving his face wide open. It’s a trap, Curran. Don’t!
Curran dodged and rammed his forearm into Hugh’s jaw. No.
Hugh staggered back, leaning back, turning the energy of the impact into his own blow, and chopped at Curran’s left side. The axe bit into flesh at least two inches deep. Damn it all to hell!
Curran danced back. Hugh lunged forward, slicing at Curran’s leading leg. Curran dodged left, jerked his fists up, and brought them down like a hammer toward Hugh’s head.
What was he doing? I kicked the snow. Curran was better than this. I fought him every day in our gym. He was better than this.
Hugh jerked his axes up, hafts crossed, caught Curran’s arms, and pulled the axes apart, letting Curran’s blow slide off. Curran kicked with his left leg, sweeping Hugh’s leading leg out from under him. D’Ambray rolled on the ground and sprang back up. Curran chased him. They moved across the overpass, cutting and blocking, each blow fast and hard enough to knock most fighters out of the fight.
The undead horde behind us was growing closer and closer.
Curran was cut in four places. His blood was all over the overpass. Hugh favored his right leg, but he showed no signs of tiring. His axes cleaved, chopped, and carved, one second aiming to sever an arm, the next threatening Curran’s chest. I began to pace back and forth. It was that or I’d explode.
Another graze of the axe. Another open wound. More blood.
Curran was taking too much damage, even for a shapeshifter. I wouldn’t lose him on this stupid bridge. This wasn’t the way it ended. It couldn’t be. Hugh would not take him from me.
The door behind us shuddered under the press of undead bodies. Finish it. Finish it, Curran.
Hugh reversed the blow and rammed the top of his right axe head into Curran’s midsection. Curran staggered and Hugh smashed the haft of his left axe into Curran’s skull.
My heart clenched into a painful hard ball.
Curran bent forward, dazed.
D’Ambray smiled, his grin demonic, and swung the two axes at once. Stupid flashy move. In my mind the blades connected, like razor-sharp scissors slicing closed. Curran’s head slid off his shoulders . . . My throat closed. I couldn’t take a single breath.
Curran surged up, grabbed Hugh’s wrists, planted his foot into the left side of Hugh’s stomach, and fell back. Hugh tumbled forward, pulled by Curran’s weight. Curran swung his right leg over Hugh’s neck. Hugh crashed to the ground on his back and Curran rolled up on top of him, Hugh’s arm clamped in his hands, one leg over Hugh’s throat, the other over his chest. Juji Gatame, the most powerful armlock in judo.
Curran bent back and pulled the arm. Hugh screamed as his shoulder joint came apart. His rotator cuff must’ve torn. Triceps too, probably. Curran arched his hips. Hugh’s elbow joint popped like a chopstick snapping. Yes! Heal that, you sonovabitch.