Page 96 of Heart of Night
Crimson spittle runs down Ephegos’s chin as he whirls around, weighing his options between pinning me down and fighting Herinor.
“See who’s returned,” he hisses over his shoulder, grabbing my punch-ready fist with an iron hold, and doesn’t let go, no matter how hard I tug—which is no longer much. What’s left of my magic is a cool pond in the depths of my being, unreachable, similar to the way the drug made it disappear; only the awareness lingers. And my senses?—
I can smell the freedom waving from Herinor’s direction as he marches up, slicing through skin and bone, flesh and sinew. It doesn’t matter how many guards stand in his way; he wipes them out like a male on a mission.
He’s a few steps away now, his gaze hard on Ephegos as he marches up to us, throwing up a shield behind him to block out the remaining guards.
“You know you can’t kill me—not in this world. You’ll die if you lay a hand on me. And you most certainly can’t save her.” Ephegos reminds Herinor of the terms of his bargain. I hadn’t known a no-killing-Ephegos deal was included, but I should have guessed, or Herinor would have long slit the fucking traitor’s throat in his sleep. I can see it now—the ruthless brutality he warned me of that first day in the torture chamber at the Flame estate, the menace pounding in his veins.
“I might just try my luck.” Herinor stops behind Ephegos, sword aiming at Ephegos’s shoulder and his magic ready at his fingertips glimmering in silver sparks.
“No—” We didn’t go through all of this just to have another person sacrifice himself.
Herinor’s eyes fully meet mine for the first time since we entered the dungeon, and the resolve I find there almost brings me to tears. He means it. He’d give his life to get both of us out—his king and queen.
“Royad?” It’s all I need to say for him to understand what I’m asking.
He curtly dips his chin.
Royad is alive and safe. At least, the best ones among us got out. Clio and Kaira and Royad…
All but Myron. He’s the last of the good ones.
A trickle of magic wraps around my injured wrist, leading it to Ephegos’s waiting one, and the steel manacle falls into place regardless of my injury. Trying not to black out at the fresh assault of agony, I grit my teeth.
“Don’t fucking touch her.” Herinor’s gaze is that of a male ready to murder—again—and I don’t need to think one beat to know there is only one outcome to this if he is dead-set on saving us: we’ll all be dead. And Herinor will pave the way straight through Eroth’s Veil.
“It’s all right.” Every word hurts, but I force them out anyway. I turn to Herinor, ignoring the way Ephegos forces the manacles even tighter. “Just get Myron out. I’ll be all right.” Because helping Myron won’t break his bargain. He’s done it before.
Whether it’s the plea in my voice or the panic in my eyes, I can’t tell, but he blows out a breath, ignoring the guards hacking at his invisible shield with their meek swords. He sheaths his own blade and side steps Ephegos, reaching for Myron’s limp form, and my chest tightens at the sight of him, defenseless and pale. The light tingling in the inked mark on my shoulder is the only thing reassuring me that he’s still alive.
“Don’t you dare.” Ephegos throws a blast of magic at the male, but Herinor takes it with grace, grunting at the impact of power on his shield, not more than swaying. “I’m the King of Crows. You have sworn loyalty to me.”
Herinor sweeps Myron up in his strong arms, careful not to jostle him too much in the process, and I bemoan the warmth seeping into my skin where Myron’s face rested against me. “I might have sworn loyalty to you; that doesn’t keep me from saving my friend.” His eyes find mine one last time, and I manage to force myself to turn away from Myron’s face to meet his gaze. “I can’t save you, Ayna. You’re on your own.”
Sweat beads Herinor’s forehead, and his chest is heaving labored breaths. Something is definitely at work as he finds his way around the constraints of his bargain. It pains me to watch, and yet, I can’t look away as Herinor takes a careful step toward the back of the dungeon where starlight beckons.
Nothing happens. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t fall, doesn’t disintegrate or dissipate into crimson mist.
Ephegos curses as another one of his blows scrapes against Herinor’s mighty shield, and there is nothing he can do—nothing except shout after the male walking away. “You will regret this, Herinor. You’ll regret you ever even considered betraying me.”
Herinor stops and turns, Myron’s head rolling against his shoulder as he lifts it in a casual shrug. “I wouldn’t expect any less from a traitor.” He inclines his head in a mock bow to Ephegos before turning to me. “It’s been an honor, my queen.”
The last word comes out half-choked, and I imagine I see a trail of blood trickling from the side of his mouth, but he spins around and continues down the corridor, not even bothering to lash out at the remaining guards with his magic when his shield is keeping them at bay.
I can’t stop staring. I don’t blink the entire time until he reaches the very end of the dungeon where he slips through the hole in Silas’s cell and melts into the shadows. The starlight flickers for a moment, but I only know they truly made it out when the guards stumble like the wall they’ve been leaning against melts away, and they charge after the two males with their blades ready.
A part of me thanks Shaelak that those guards weren’t equipped with the magic-dampening weapon that was used to capture Myron in the first place, but before I can wonder how far the two males will make it—if they will find Royad and the others—a fist connects with my jaw, and the world turns into a black pit where not even my Crow senses can help me.
Forty-Six
Ayna
Soft light filters into the room in hues of buttery yellow and whipped cream when I open my eyes. It’s nothing compared to the clarity of my senses when I woke after being infused with the antidote to Ephegos’s drug, but it’s better than my pure human senses used to be. The smell of flowers, earth, and rich, expensive wood blends with the odor of sweat, blood, and fear, and my body is heavy like rock—just not as durable. The pain in my shoulder where Katrijanov stabbed me has reduced to a dull throb, a reminder of what happened, and the ache in my chest sets in instantly when I realize where I am.
Hardwood supports my weight, and fresh air fills my lungs, enhancing the soreness in every last muscle and the gaping hole where my heart has been ripped out—because, no matter that I begged Herinor to take Myron and run, I’m still here. I’m back in my room at Erina’s palace, my dirty, blood-caked shirt and pants proof of the battle we fought—and lost.
I’m here, discarded on the floor like an item to be used later. And my magic is gone. Not one flicker of power responds when I reach into the depths of myself to draw upon Vala’s water magic or the Crow powers Shaelak gifted me. An unnecessary glance at my arm confirms that my shirt has been shoved up and I’ve been injected with the drug once more—as does the nausea rising in my stomach. It hits like a wave, and I don’t make it to the bathing room in time, so I dry-heave onto the polished wood, braced on my hands and knees—and curse when the wound on my wrist breaks open with a stinging pain. I sink back on my haunches, waiting for my body to stop revolting before I scramble to my feet and sway toward the door.