Fletcher fired Blaze, hitting the attacker in the thigh, enough to send it spinning away. A talon slashed his arm, feathers blinding him as a Matriarch swooped. He snarled with pain and holstered the pistol before it fell from his hand, the wound on his arm spreading crimson through his blue jacket.
“Almost. There,” Othello yelled, punctuating each word with kinetic blasts, hurling swooping Shrikes and Matriarchs back with the force. Cress was following his example, the deep whump of each spell accompanied by a blast of wind and tumbling plumage. Fletcher drew his khopesh left-handed, clasping his injured right arm to his chest. He extended a finger from the hilt and fired a streak of lightning, the electric blue bolts searing through the air, punching a hole of falling Shrikes through the melee that surrounded them. His mana was near drained.
Shadows streaked past as Shrikes dived and feinted, wary of the ferocious defense of their prey. Another burst of pain across his calf, the demon speeding away before he could riposte with his khopesh.
The world spun, the edges of his vision darkening. He could feel the hot trickle of blood down his leg, the deep wound voiding blood fast. Too fast. He tried to etch the healing spell but it sputtered and died in the air, his elbow jarring from the judder of Ignatius’s wings.
He heard a cry of warning from Sylva, felt the thud of a Shrike hitting his shoulder. Ignatius dropped into a stomach-churning swoop.
A blue glow rushed toward him.
*
The world was suddenly cold and dark. Fletcher felt the jar of Ignatius hitting the ground, then he was sailing through the air, turning once, twice. He slammed against the floor, tumbling over and over until he lay in a crumpled pile of pain. He could feel the stick of leather against his face, smell the harsh tang of its scent through his nostrils.
His half-cracked eyes saw the blur of the spinning portal, part blocked by black figures. The glow darkened as a demon emerged, then the blue sphere winked out of existence, leaving the room in utter darkness.
He heard the pounding of feet, sensed Ignatius’s presence beside him. There was the warm lap of the demon’s tongue across his calf, then a moment later it bathed his arm in saliva. He felt the rush of the last of his mana leaving him, the healing spell imbued in the Salamander’s tongue working its way into his flesh, knitting muscle and skin together.
Fletcher was suddenly aware of voices around him, shouts of surprise, of fear. The room flared with flickering light as torches sputtered into life. His vision widened.
A man’s voice cut through the noise, barking orders. Then he saw him, striding purposefully toward him, eyes flashing with concern.
Arcturus.
CHAPTER
22
THEY HAD FLOWN INTO a summoning lesson. The first of the academic year, in fact. Arcturus had returned to teaching after the rescue mission, taking Rook’s place.
When Fletcher and his team had spotted the portal, Arcturus had been demonstrating the dangers of the Shrikes’ migration to his students, observing the flock from the safe distance of the deadlands. Fortunately, a keen-eyed student had spotted their desperate escape in the Oculus, Vocans’ giant scrying stone, before the lesson had ended. Sacharissa had waited behind the portal so Arcturus could watch their progress, and jumped through when they had reached safety.
Now, they sat in the library, reveling in the soft cushions of the armchairs and the warmth of the hearth that crackled nearby. Fletcher had carried his mother up in his arms and laid her out on a sofa by the fire.
The rest of them were seated around a large oak table, piled high with books from the studies of other students. It was surrounded by the tall shelves that divided the room into a maze of book-lined corridors. It was almost midnight; the lesson had been a late one.
“Who are we waiting for?” Othello groaned, fidgeting in his seat nervously. They had not been given the opportunity to wash, or even change their clothes. Instead, Arcturus had told them to infuse their demons and rushed them away from the first-year students, who had stared after them with amazement.
“I’ll let them explain,” Arcturus said, pacing nervously by the door.
“Who?” Sylva repeated, her patience wearing as thin as the line of her pursed lips.
“Look, I don’t even know who’s coming,” Arcturus replied, running his hands through his hair. “I sent word to King Harold and Elai—Captain Lovett, but they might bring or send others. A lot has changed while you were out there…”
“Well, tell us that part at least,” Fletcher said, sick of the mystery. He had thought they would receive a hero’s welcome, not be hidden away like common criminals. It was the shock of that reception that had kept him silent about his mother’s rescue. Arcturus had barely given her a second look, and likely still believed her to be Lady Cavendish, Rufus’s mother. It could wait.
“Captain Lovett, she heard everything,” Arcturus said, still pacing. “At least, until Lysander went through the portal and their connection was severed. Jeffrey’s confession, how you escaped, all of it. But she had no proof, so she kept it silent. Nobody even believed that you had gone into the ether.”
“We didn’t realize she knew,” Sylva murmured. “We thought Lysander was unconscious.”
“What else?” Othello asked.
Arcturus paused, chewing his lip.
“All of Hominum saw Rufus die,” he finally said. “They saw one of Cress’s blue crossbow bolts hit him, then saw Jeffrey run over and pull it out, trying to save him. As far as they were concerned, Cress killed Rufus. They didn’t know it was Jeffrey that shot him.”
The news hit Fletcher like a shaft of lightning. He had been exhausted, ready to sleep in the warm comfort of the library, but now he felt icy shock running down his spine.
Rufus had been dead when they entered the chamber beneath the pyramid. They had never seen what had killed him, only a deep wound in the boy’s stomach. Jeffrey must have thrown the crossbow bolt out of sight.
“But Jeffrey thought he had failed,” Cress gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth.
“It was out of the corner of Lysander’s eye, just after he was paralyzed,” Arcturus explained, his face drawn and grim. “His eyes closed a few seconds later. Jeffrey probably didn’t realize all of Hominum was watching—the only reason he was pretending to help Rufus was to trick the three of you when you came out of the tunnel. The bugger got lucky.”
“So everyone hates the dwarves again,” Othello whispered. “They think we sent an assassin to kill one of their own.”
Arcturus sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“Old King Alfric has already ordered the Pinkertons to surround the dwarven quarter. It’s a powder keg, waiting to explode. But that’s not the worst of our problems.”
“It’s not?” Fletcher asked, horrified.
Arcturus shook his head.