Ve'Rah Daa (The Ephemeral: Book 3)

Chapter 41

Through the blasted walls of the palace, I watched the Pots drop from the sky to the northern perimeter of the grounds. The same perimeter where Rover and Sol fought my brother, and where our strongest soldiers had advanced—lured in by a false sense of security.

The demons fell like tephra, and if it weren't for the portal masking my scent, I knew they'd have sought out my memories faster than greyhounds chasing prey.

Then again, with Regulas at the helm, it would take nothing more than a thought to end me.

When I glanced back at the demon king, his pale fingers had found the old fireplace poker lying on the ground behind him—a tool blocked from Will's view. And as tatted knuckles curled around the iron bar, I realized it wasn't for defense.

"Will, move!" I shrieked.

His alarmed gaze locked on my position, as if he'd sensed me there all along, but my warning came too late.

Regulas swung the metal rod straight into his brother's kneecap, and the harsh crack of bone—followed by Will's agonized gasp—filled my vision with bloodlust.

I immediately sank to the ground, bent on sending Regulas into yesteryear, but a metal-clad body crashed into mine before I could so much as graze the floor, and the world tipped sideways.

My spine smacked the stone corridor, and the Pan who'd tackled me there bared her teeth as she pinned my wrists above my head, palms up.

Power nullified.

Utility extinguished.

But I didn't have time to dwell on her menacing expression, nor the absurd weight of her body. My gaze was back on Will in an instant.

He'd fallen on his good knee, clutching tight to his other leg as darkness rained upon the battlefield. I waited for him to rise, to shake it off, but his eyes remained closed, and he didn't move a muscle.

He can't, I realized with a nauseating twist in my gut.

Regulas, spared from my power, staggered to his feet, still gripping the poker as he kicked Will's sword out of reach. "Don't you remember my first rule of training, Ace? Only the dead know defeat." He tsked. "Amateur move on your part."

"Get away from him," I snarled, thrashing against Two-Ton's grip, doing everything in my power to escape this human snare.

Regulas wouldn't take Will away from me.

Not again.

"Ikelos..." Bloodshot eyes trailed my way, and he smiled, pleased to see me alive for a plethora of nefarious reasons, I'm sure. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show."

I was finally close enough to see the toll of this massacre on him, the cost of such powerful magic. And though Havard insisted that Godric—and Godric alone—paid the price for opening a bridge, I had to wonder if something changed the day he died.

Because there was no questioning it: Regulas was beyond sick. He was corrupted—mind, body, and soul. Poisoned by hate and something much, much darker. And it was turning him into a creature far worse than I'd imagined.

I squirmed again, kicking out beneath the Pan, but she was too strong. Too heavy.

"There's no point," Regulas said, inclining his head at my futile efforts. "Why don't you just...sit back and watch?"

Watch what, I didn't know, and I had no intention of finding out.

Cinder started forward to intervene, a low growl in her throat, but with one irritated glance from her son, a dozen Pots diverged from the swirling mass overhead and dove for her—falcons of smoke and avarice.