Fire blooms, but he vanishes it in a whirl of darkened shadow.
It’s like what he did with the library. The explosion is somehow contained, its damage swallowed by those clouds of darkness.
“The prince!” someone points.
“He has wings,” another cries.
Thorns erupt through the cobblestones of the street like some sort of monstrous bramble-creature that’s clawing its way up from the underground.
One of them lashes out and snatches up a butcher. He vanishes with a scream, swallowed whole by the chasm. And suddenly fae are moving again, fleeing in terror.
What sort of attack is this?
Baylor meets the next blow, but a thorn lashes out and wraps around his waist. It hauls him inside the crevice.
“Baylor!” I whisper hoarsely, leaping into the street with my daggers in hand. The brambles whip and writhe, snatching an older female off her feet and dragging her toward the gaping chasm.
Lunging forward I drive both daggers through the thicker, fleshier part of the bramble and a hissing screech echoes.
“Take—” my hands. My voice dies in a croak, but the female clutches at me and I haul her to her feet. A shove in the back sends her limping into the flurry.
And then a fae warrior is thrown up through the crevice, as though the bramble-creature tossed him.
He lands lightly on his feet in the middle of the street, and before his red cape has even finished swirling, his sword clears its sheath and slices a man’s head from his shoulders.
Gold-plated armor. Red cloak. The crown of thorns emblem on the pommel of his sword.
An Asturian warrior.
Mother.
And not just one of her guards, but one of her elite, hand-picked Deathguard, judging by the blank gold mask that covers his features.
A two-pronged attack—one group no doubt sent after the walls of the dam, and the second sent into the city to create as much havoc as possible.
Second strike.
My mind flashes back to that encounter in the bookshop. This ‘Gray Guild’ that wants to overthrow my husband is working with my mother.
With her? Or for her?
Do they even know what they’ve begun?
“Baylor?” I try to yell, but the sound is a muted whisper.
He’ll have to take care of himself. I have my hands full.
The warrior whirls, cutting down an enormous merchant who charges at him. He moves like lightning, barely pausing to shove the man off his blade before he spins and guts a woman who tries to brain him with a meat cleaver.
Another Asturian warrior is launched through the crevice. A female, this time.
Then a third. And a fourth.
There will be five in this pack; they always hunt in groups of five.
But the fifth is no warrior clad in gold.
Instead it’s a bane, wearing a thick golden collar the size of my forearm.
It lands on all four legs, its slavering jowls quivering as it roars, and then it bounds after a pair of women that scream and flee toward a restaurant.
I have to get these people out of here.
Or create a target they might focus on, to give the merchants time to escape.
Summoning a bow of raw aether, I forge an arrow out of flame and nock it swiftly. Heat sizzles near my cheek. It was a trick Thiago taught me; he can’t wield Fire, but he knew it would teach me to control every inch of flame. I lock on the bane and sent the shaft blazing through the air.
The bane screams as my arrow strikes between its shoulder blades. Its fur catches fire instantly, until it’s a howling inferno of rage and pain.
I don’t have time to focus on it. My fingers are blistered—I’m still perfecting my fire arrows—and now I have the attention of the remaining four Deathguard.
And no voice.
My bow vanishes into nothing.
“What’s wrong, little girl?” The warrior sneers, wiping his fingers along the edge of his blade and flicking blood onto the cobbles. “Scared?”
Voiceless. Impotent rage simmers within me, but there’s more than one way to communicate.
He grabs for me and I punch him in the face, driving the force of my blow through my knuckles.
His head snaps back and he staggers, but he’s twice my size and recovers quickly.
“You’ll pay for that,” promises the female.
I spin low, beneath the sweep of her sword, swiping her feet out from under her. The second she crashes to the ground, I scramble for her fallen sword.
Four-on-one aren’t great odds and my daggers are barely half a foot long. Jokes about little pricks notwithstanding.
The one I punched sneers and takes a step toward me. But the blond grabs his arm and removes his mask. “Wait.”
“Let me go!”
“Don’t you know who she is?” The blond’s eyes lock on me and I realize I’ve seen his face before. One of my mother’s guards. Halvor, perhaps? “That’s the princess.”
All four of them focus on me.
“Worth her weight in gold,” adds the last guard, “if we bring her back to her mother. Alive.”
I take a step back as they all advance. I’d rather die than be returned to my mother. I won’t be the bargaining chip she uses to destroy my husband and our people.
Placing my palm flat on the ground I summon fire. Flames circle me with a hiss; a warning.
And Halvor smiles. “She’s weak. Fire’s her natural gift, but the rest of her arsenal is limited. Attack.”
A rather accurate assessment of the princess who’d been sent to Evernight as a tribute.
But Thiago—for all that he loves me—hasn’t been letting me rest easy. I’d said that I wanted to relearn my magic, and so he’s spent the last three months pushing me to the brink in order to force it to flourish.
I’ve cursed him every day for that decision, but right now, I could kiss his feet in gratitude.
Without a voice, I merely place my palm out flat and gesture toward Halvor.
Come on, then. Let’s dance.
He launches himself over the ring of flames and I step into the movement, driving my sword up to meet his. There’s
