Page 94 of Heart of Night
The man grunts as I push him off, slinging my water around his neck and pulling taut as he lashes out with his sword again.
Guardians, it hurts. Blood streams down my arm in a river of crimson, but I don’t let go of the water I direct to snap the man’s neck. I drop the corpse and send my water toward Katrijanov, who has come within reach with his unholy syringe.
“We need to get out,” I call to Myron, who’s engaged in a battle of his own now, throwing blast after blast at Ephegos. There is no shame in running if it means we’ll get out alive.
“Run.” Myron’s voice is strained from the effort of holding onto his power when he’s so clearly still recovering from the nullifying drug. His power is draining fast, and if I leave him to fight on his own, he might not walk away.
“Not without you.” I don’t dare look his way as I sling the string of water around Katrijanov’s neck once, twice, and pull hard enough to break bone. A sickening crunch tells me something broke in his spine, but the victory is short-lived. Just as I want to sigh a breath of relief, Katrijanov tilts forward, grabbing for me as he falls out of my magic’s grasp. I see the needle coming toward me in an inevitable path. All I can do is duck away, but I’m not fast enough.
Myron is, though, his massive form sliding between the general and me, and a grunt tells me he took the impact. The man isn’t the problem, he could lift him easily, but Katrijanov’s needle made it into Myron’s biceps as he clutches onto the male, legs failing.
“Fuck—”
I couldn’t say it any better. In reflex, I step around Myron, ramming my knife into Katrijanov’s neck, but it’s too late. Half of the drug has made it into Myron’s arm.
Shoving the man off Myron, who’s suddenly unstable on his legs, I rip the syringe from Katrijanov’s dead hand, careful not to squeeze in more of the liquid.
Of course, they have the serum down here if they are handling fairies. After what happened with me, Ephegos would never risk allowing his prisoners to go undrugged.
“Can you walk?” Discarding the syringe, I drape Myron’s arm over my shoulder.
He staggers back toward the gap in the wall, eyes never leaving Ephegos, who’s preparing to strike again, magic glimmering at his fingertips.
“Don’t run, Ayna,” Ephegos shouts from between a broken shelf and a split metal table, dust settling where Myron’s power last hit. He is still on his feet, ready to wield his magic.
I don’t even try to wonder what will happen if I don’t get Myron out of here right now.
“Erina will be disappointed not to have a Milevishja wife… You know, just in case another Milevishja pops up who claims to be of the royal bloodline.”
I ignore him, setting one tired foot in front of the other as I drag Myron into the corridor. If only I knew how to build one of those shields, I could ward off Ephegos’s next strike.
Silver flashes through the room as he sends his magic flying, and I barely manage to yank Myron out of the way. My injured shoulder screams as I take his weight with it. Myron tries to keep his balance, but the drug is fast-working, and he’s already swaying. Not long and he’ll black out.
“Come on…” I pull him along, fighting to keep him moving while simultaneously searching for the water string I dropped alongside Katrijanov—may he never rise again—but can barely sense my own magic.
Ephegos is on our heels, slower than expected with all the strength he’s used fighting Myron or simply reluctant to injure us in earnest. If he truly means what he said, he’ll keep both of us alive—me to marry Erina for breeding little royals, and Myron to make sure I play along. Perhaps dying is the better option.
A groan of pain escapes Myron as Ephegos’s next blast sears his shoulder right where his inked mark spreads on his skin, and I almost drop him as heat singes me in the same place like the mark connects us physically rather than just our souls.
We need to fucking run. But my feet are sluggish, and Myron’s are failing.
“If you get us out of here, I promise I’ll consider converting to the Neredynian faith,” I whisper to Vala, or Shaelak, or any Neredynian god who’d hear me.
A glance over my aching shoulder informs me that Ephegos has made it across rubble and debris. Blood runs down his forehead where rocks hit when they rained from the ceiling, but he is in control of his limbs, and that’s more than Myron and I can say for ourselves.
Not far… I can see the steel bars of the cells ahead, yet the exit is a lifetime away, and if Ephegos chases us at that speed, he’ll catch up long before we can ever dream of climbing out the hole Myron tore into the outer wall, let alone escape into the city.
The corridor is swarming with guards—and they are wearing sepia.
Erina knows what’s going on down here, or he wouldn’t have sent his palace guards.
“There is nowhere for you to run, Ayna,” Ephegos hisses.
I don’t deign him with a look. Cleary, there isn’t. He’s blocking our way back, and in front of us, rows of guards are closing in.
We’re fucked.
“We need to make it to the cells,” Myron whispers, head lolling as he stumbles one step after the other. He doesn’t have long. “Get him to the cells.”