Demon and mage clashed again. They were slowing. Weakening. Their lives draining away as the soul link leeched the strength out of them. In a minute or two, maybe less, neither would be able to continue.
And they knew it.
Gasping, Ezra threw a burst of wind at the demon—but it was weak. Way too weak. Instead of being driven back, Eterran snapped his wings out, repelling the gust.
With a roar, he launched at Ezra, his talons flashing for the mage’s chest.
Ezra should’ve ducked. Blocked. Countered.
Instead, he clutched his blade and lunged to meet the demon. They slammed together, and my scream rang out—a cry of anguished terror.
Blood splattered the floor.
In the center of the circle, demon and mage didn’t move. Ezra held Eterran’s wrist. He’d forced the demon’s arm down, deflecting those lethal talons away from his heart—but not far enough.
The six-inch talons were buried in his stomach, right on top of his old scars.
In Ezra’s other hand, he held the hilt of his knife, the full length of its blade rammed between Eterran’s ribs, a few inches too low to strike his heart.
Their chests heaved for breath. Blood spread over Ezra’s shirt. A line of thicker, darker blood ran from the knife in Eterran’s chest.
The aeromage’s gasping inhalations slowed. His stare locked on Eterran’s and his hand, clutching his weapon’s hilt, tightened.
Time seemed to distort, one second dragging into the next. Mage or demon. One of them had to act—was about to act—would deliver the killing blow. Whoever moved first would survive.
Ezra sucked in a deep breath, gathering the dregs of his strength. Steeling himself.
A final instant, a heartbeat, a reckoning.
Then he twisted the knife.
A spiral of air blades tore through the demon’s chest. Wind burst from Eterran’s back, carrying a mist of dark blood, and the demon lurched away, his talons tearing from Ezra’s stomach.
A gory hole in the center of Eterran’s chest wept blood down his front. His limbs quivered faintly, and the demon sank to his knees. As the glow in his eyes dimmed from crimson to dark scarlet, he slumped onto his side.
Ezra dropped onto his hands and knees. Ripples of transparent power shivered between him and the demon as they stared at each other—then Ezra leaned forward. Reached out.
He grasped the demon’s hand, holding it tight. Eterran’s eyes darkened from scarlet to black as blood pooled beneath him. Bitterness flickered across the demon’s features, then softened into weary peace.
“Vh’renith vē thāit.” The unfamiliar words rasped from his throat. “Never forget.”
His eyelids slid closed over ebony eyes, and the shudder of his body stilled. As quiet fell across the room, the faint radiance of the soul link dissolved into nothing.
“Victory,” Ezra whispered, “or death. I’ll remember.”
Chapter Eighteen
I knelt on the floor with both hands wrapped around Ezra’s. Crouched opposite me, Zak dribbled a gray potion into the puncture wounds in Ezra’s stomach. The druid had elevated Ezra’s legs, thrown his jacket over the mage’s lower body to keep him warm, and fed him three potions—but Zak was neither a true healer nor a surgeon.
All he could do was try to keep Ezra alive as long as possible.
My limbs rigid, I watched Ezra’s chest rise and fall with short, rapid breaths. He was conscious, but his stare was frighteningly blank and I wasn’t sure if he knew I was beside him.
I clutched his hand tighter. “Hold on, Ezra.”
Bang.
I jerked around. The small back door to the warehouse bounced off the wall, and a man swept through the threshold. Tall, fit, salt-and-pepper hair, piercing gray eyes. Darius gave the room a brief, assessing look, then strode toward us. On his heels, two mythics hurried inside, both carrying large fluorescent-orange cases.
Elisabetta and Miles, our guild’s healers.
Leaping up, I backed away to make space, and Elisabetta knelt in my spot. Miles, a well-built man with a shaved head who looked like he should be crushing rogues on a combat team, crouched beside her and unzipped his case to reveal bundles of medical supplies and Arcana paraphernalia.
“Five puncture wounds to the abdomen,” Elisabetta observed brusquely as she took hold of Ezra’s wrist, feeling for his pulse. “His lips are cyanotic. No radial pulse. Miles, prep an IV while I get him on oxygen. You, keep pressure on the wound.”
The second order was fired at Zak, and he pressed both hands to the punctures in Ezra’s stomach while Miles dug into his case. Elisabetta opened hers and pulled out a zippered bag. In it was a lunchbox-sized device with a mini oxygen canister. She strapped the plastic mask to Ezra’s face and turned a knob on the device.
“How’s that IV coming, Miles?” she asked as she clipped a small electronic gadget to Ezra’s finger. “His O2 sats are”—she peered at the gadget—“eighty-nine percent.”
“Almost there,” Miles murmured as he prodded Ezra’s forearm, then inserted a needle. “Get a vasoconstriction potion on those punctures.”
“I already did that,” Zak said. “It’ll last another five minutes at most. I also fed him a blood replenisher, blood-loss stabilizer, and high-potency vitality draft.”
Elisabetta looked surprised for less than half a second. “I need to suture these wounds before we begin the healing. Can you assist me so Miles can prep the array?”
“Yes.”
She and Zak gloved up. As Zak wiped a yellowish-orange liquid from Elisabetta’s supplies over Ezra’s stomach, she flipped open a case to reveal rows of shiny surgical tools. I scrunched my eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea.
A hand settled on my shoulder. Opening my eyes, I found Darius standing beside me. How long had he been there?
He nodded toward the other end of the summoning circle, and I followed his gaze to Eterran’s body, untouched since his death, a pool of dark blood surrounding him.
“You succeeded,” he murmured.
While Zak had disabled the barrier sealing Ezra inside the ritual circle, I’d called Darius. Our brief conversation had included no details except our location and “Ezra is dying, bring healers now!”
“We did,” I whispered. “Ezra won.”
But he might still die.
“Darius …” My
