A Touch Of Darkness

18 || Lies And Love

With all the speed I can muster, I jerk back, banging into the wall as my boots scuff on the cobbles. By some miracle, the fire stumbles over the remnants of the barrier -- most likely as a consequence of the other glove -- but it is still there, and so is the man, a mere step away, one half of Ligari's precious enchantment clutched in his hand.

Black sparks prick at my palm. I curl my fist, hiding them from view, instead channelling flame inward and towards my ribs. The pain eases. I scramble to my feet, darting as far into the corner between houses as I can get.

His head tips to the side. "That brought you to life."

He's not wrong. Fire skips through my veins, a thread of energy to hold me upright. It's a relief as much as a crippling fear. A different weapon. I fumble for my dagger, its hilt almost slipping from my naked hand as I hold it out before me, jabbing it in his direction.

"Stay back." Finally, a drop of the command I've been searching for leaks into my tone.

He only chuckles. "Slade, get the other one."

Slade is nothing but a silhouetted figure, but his lunge is certainly not difficult to miss. Instinct takes over. I jerk my left arm behind my back, and in the same moment drive forward with my right, sinking the blade into his blurred chest. A cry cuts through the air. As I yank the dagger back, he staggers away, almost crashing into his companion.

It worked. Exhilaration mingles with shock in my stomach. Dully, red illuminates the blade, brighter than its former grey. My doing, not that of the flame. I just stabbed someone.

And I'm about to be stabbed in return, if I don't stay alert. Moonlight streaks the shape of a blade as it swings towards me. I thrust my dagger up to block it, gripping its hilt with both hands, arms shaking as I fight to keep the sword from creeping closer. If this third figure manages to cut me, fire will pour out. I can't kill again. Not when the prevention of that is still wrapped tightly around my left hand.

Flame hisses as it bunches in my muscles, steeling them against the blade. Much else beyond it is obscured by the night. I need the other glove. My thoughts whir and tangle, an ocean of white noise I can't make sense of. All I can do is remain flattened in the corner, helplessly trapped under the threat of a strike.

My arms strain. The sword's tip angles towards my chest, tilting our struggle, and I press against it desperately. I can't continue this forever. I'm going to give in far sooner than my opponent.

The most effective weapon I have left is the truth.

A burning pulse snakes over my fingers, barely contained. My eyes flick to my left. There is empty space. Perhaps if I jerk back suddenly, I can dodge out of his path, then spin and let them see the flame, letting its threat ward them away. I can work out how to retrieve my second glove once I have a handle on the situation.

Yet before I can gather the courage to release the blade's locked hold, a shout rings out over the street.

All pressure on my dagger vanishes. Snatching at the opportunity, I allow the lost momentum to carry me forward, slashing at whatever lies beyond the stilled sword. A growling yelp, and my attacker staggers back. I swing my dagger in a wide arc. My heart pounds as I search the shadows, startling illuminated by a weak amber light.

Two men stand facing me, swords drawn. A thin red line slits the second's chest diagonally. The third -- Slade -- is sitting half-upright between them, hand clasped over his middle. Blood spills over his fingers. I wince, swallowing the earthy taste tainting the back of my throat. My doing.

Yet none of them look at me. Without lowering my dagger, I turn, following their collective gaze, just as a second shout fills the night. This time, I hear the words it forms.