A fresh legion of demons pushed and shoved against the walls of the swelling vortex, anticipating sweet deliverance. At any moment, thousands of them would burst from the trembling funnel and coalesce, cementing a future that made my heart cower against my posterior ribs.
This outcome had always been a possibility, but seeing the beam of hellfire now, unaffected by the strongest ammunition we possessed, filled my body with terror.
What did we do now?
And where's Will? my heart echoed.
When the cacophony of active battle returned, I locked eyes with a grim, contemplative Rover.
"Go," he said.
The command knocked me off balance. "But—"
"If we can't destroy that portal, then the king has to die." A ghoulish Pan marched for him, extracting a bloody saber from his back scabbard, and Rover braced his legs for impact. "We've gotta close that bridge, Fuse. Do whatever it takes."
I stared at him as he lunged for his opponent, slicing and thrusting with renewed vigor. Aiming low to avoid skewering the demon and the human soul it harbored.
The order might have frightened me once, back before my encounter with Aimes. But I realized now that certain monsters deserved to be hunted, and that sometimes, death was a merciful punishment.
Too merciful, even.
I'd tried and failed to reason with Regulas. He'd had his chance to correct course, but he'd chosen to dig two graves this spring: one for himself, and one for his kingdom.
"Hurry, before that thing starts spitting up raws!" Rover yelled. "I'm two minutes behind you." Steel clipped steel, and he angled his head. "...Make that five."
I swallowed, scanning the battlefield—the shift in our soldiers' fighting style, the worry in their eyes—and I sprinted for the wreckage.
I approached the portal's base with cautious steps, climbing over piles of debris and twisting through a maze of palace entrails. I kept my eyes peeled for sentries, but the bomb had crushed and buried most of the royal guard, granting me the perfect opportunity to slip through the chaos unchallenged. I only hoped Claus and his team had made it out alive—and that Will wasn't entombed in the rubble of his failure, imprisoned beneath my feet.
Granted, their mission wasn't entirely futile.
Above me, the bridge rebuilt itself like a Pan mending its own ligaments. Nothing but churning darkness peered down at me now, permitting access to the inaccessible, and I wasn't about to waste my precious window—nor the sacrifices of good men.
But as I passed another hill of concrete, the cry of groaning metal pinned me in place.
"A slippery thing, aren't you?"
I closed my eyes, cursing the Fates, and I slowly pivoted.
Demon-Tom watched me from a mound of cinderblocks and mangled rebar, but he barely resembled the host he'd poisoned. His paper-thin skin was gray—nearly translucent—and black muscle tissue gleamed beneath strips of torn and wilting flesh. He was entirely bald now, his eyebrows gone too, and I would have bullied him about it if it weren't so utterly devastating.
The sight of him planted a choked sob in my throat, and it surfaced as a wobbly, "What do you want?"
He smiled, and his ink-colored gums were as nauseating as his warped and stolen voice. "Are those tears for me, Ikelos?"
"Do you really have to ask?"
He frowned at me, though his disappointment didn't seem entirely fabricated. "No witty retort?"
"Not today." I didn't have time for this interaction to begin with, let alone pointless banter.
My gaze slid to the field behind him, where our forces began losing steam—and the advantage of guerilla warfare. Their hope was dwindling by the minute, and I wasn't sure how much longer they could detain our enemies. Already, too many bodies joined the unconscious Pans on the grass.
"Just...let me go," I pleaded, dragging my eyes back to the demon. "Let me end this."
Incredulity wrinkled his scar. "Why would I do that?"
"Why would you fight for someone like Regulas?" I countered, huffing through my nose. "Can't you see that he doesn't care for your kind? He intends for you to starve, to cease to exist. He's banking on it." I shook my head. "What is there to gain by carrying out his vendetta?"
Demon-Tom's lips pulled back to reveal an ugly sneer, and I fought the urge to glance away. That look didn't sit right on my brother's face.
If I could even call it his anymore.
"Here you are, still thinking you can reason with us," he murmured. "Have you learned nothing from your time on the mountain?"
I failed to hide my wince.
Clearly, Demon-Will's manipulation games—and successes—had reached the general. And it was a fair jab, really. Will's possessor had made me question the demons' loyalty to the cause. He'd made me doubt the king's control over his legions, and I'd wondered if all Pans carried a seed of human greed inside them, stronger than the binding will of their master.
And maybe I'd been onto something there, but giving that creature the benefit of the doubt was still an asinine decision.
"Are you just slaves, then?" I prodded, blocking out the sound of battle, the federates calling for reinforcements. "Compelled to serve the very creatures you despise?"
"Enslavement suggests opposition. But my kind approve of the greater objective," he replied. "And it pleasures me immensely, killing a spirit as arrogant as yours."
"Is that why you're so obsessed? You feel the need to humble me?" Realization dawned on me the moment the words left my lips, and my brow lifted. "Or is it because my brother is still in there, tormenting you every second of your poor, miserable existence?"
He continued to glare at me, but something shifted in his moon-colored eyes that resembled regret—the kind of regret a cornered animal might express.
I knew it.
"I couldn't fathom it before, why you wanted me dead so badly. Why your hatred felt so personal, so targeted. But now it all makes sense." The corners of my mouth twitched with pride. "My brother mocks you every time we engage. He steals your focus. He weakens you. Severely."
The demon refused to dignify my claim with a response. But I knew I'd struck a beautiful, memorable chord.
"That's why I was able to disarm you that day in Holly. You overexerted yourself trying to silence my brother. You couldn't fight two enemies at once."
It wasn't my training that had granted me such a brief, satisfying victory. I wasn't some prodigy who'd mastered the sword in a season. It was all Tom's doing. And I never should have doubted that.
When his soul hadn't reemerged like Will's had, I'd assumed our connection too weak—that we'd spent too many years apart and too few together. But Tom hadn't exhausted the last of his energy reserve to say goodbye; he'd poured all his strength into crippling his possessor and saving my life.
And the general's tightly clenched jaw confirmed it.
"Your brother may have been a nuisance of a meal, but he's nothing but a flicker now." Pale eyes narrowed on my face. "He may as well be dead."
The comment had my heart tumbling through my body and smacking the earth, but I'd have to retrieve it later and give it a rinse. Right now, I needed to find Regulas.
Before Demon-Tom could attempt to wound me again—physically, this time—I dropped to a crouch, my palm exposed. But when that blistering, blinding light assaulted my mind, I found little else in the graveyard of his soul.
His mind was nearly barren, just like the demon messenger I'd encountered in Freemont. Except this demon had yet to feed upon a small reserve of treasured memories—moments that defined who my brother was at his very core. And I would only tap that meager well of Tom's identity if I intended to purge the venomous creature from his body entirely, then restore his human memories. But I couldn't do that here, when one distraction could kill him. And certainly not now, when humanity was depending on my strength.
But soon.
Soon, I'll bring you home, Tom.
I peeled my hand off the ground and immediately felt the demon's body weight slam into me. We fell to the sharp gravel, wrestling and rolling across the debris. Grunting and hissing as we battled for dominance. I fought to keep his sword away from my flesh, and I thanked the skies he was in such a sorry state. He'd have crushed me otherwise.
My spine kissed the rubble, and Demon-Tom brought his blade down like an axe, his expression aflame with psychotic triumph. I twisted beneath him at the last second, and the sword grazed my shoulder on its descent, shooting webs of pain through my tendons.
I recognized the toxic alloy immediately but decided to dwell on that unfortunate detail later. Thankfully, my fetal position put me within reach of the dagger on my thigh, and I quickly stabbed my aggressor in the armpit and rolled away.
He howled as he yanked the knife free, and I scrambled to my feet, nursing my shallow wound. Trying not to panic as I zipped up my glove.
No powers...no emotional agency...no problem.
It was the least convincing lie I'd ever told.
Demon-Tom rose from the rubble and immediately swung for the meat of my neck, his gaze pulsing with bloodlust. I ducked, his lethal blade whooshing past me, and after putting a few feet between us, I unsheathed the sword Rover demanded I carry, grateful for these last three weeks of arduous training.
I managed to parry his blade aside—twice—but he was backing me into a corner, directing me toward the sturdy bones of the palace, and my confidence was plummeting with every remise. This demon was too strong for me, too driven, and I wondered if, perhaps on rare occassions, hate really did trump love.
Our final bind brought his rotten body much too close, and he used his free hand to grab the lip of my helmet and shove my head against a semi-demolished pillar.
The move had me crumpling to the ground, my ears ringing, my vision shifting. The dent in my helmet dug into my skull, and I shoved the deformed bucket off my head, gasping for breath.
Don't puke, Al.
Reel it in.
Just as I gathered the sense to raise my blade and defend myself, icy-hot pain tore through the left side of my body, and I instantly knew I'd made the mistake that would cost me my life.
The excruciating blow sent bile into my stomach, and I squinted at the sword protruding from my upper thigh, just below my leather tasset. White smoke billowed from the wound like pipe smoke, and I released every curse in my blasphemous library.
Demon-Tom crouched in front of me, still grasping the hilt of his weapon. "Well...that was underwhelming," he muttered as he placed even more weight on the sword. On its journey south, the blade grazed my femur and cleaved apart muscle tissue until he'd all but staked me to the ground.
I panted through gritted teeth, refusing to reward him with the whimper in my larynx. Still, I couldn't help the water that filled my eyes. "Sorry to disappoint."
We locked eyes, and I searched his gaze for a trace of the man who made promises on starlight, but Tom had retreated to the deepest alcoves of his mind, preserving what little remained of his soul.
"I only regret the absence of an audience," he sighed, pulling a fresh knife from his dagger frog. "But I suppose it's more appropriate this way, the mighty Ikelos dying alone in the dirt. Don't you think?"
Sorry, Will, I thought miserably as he brought the blade to my throat. The roar of battle faded in the wind, as if my spirits had already fled my body. It's up to you now.
Vanadium sizzled against my flesh, and I steeled myself for exsanguination.
Then something smacked the side of Demon-Tom's face—hard enough to break skin—and he toppled over with a hiss.
My gaze snapped to the chunk of concrete, now speckled with black blood, before swinging to the tall, grinning soldier covered in dust.
Victor.
He saluted me, chipper as ever, despite the bloody gash on his temple and a foot that couldn't bear weight. Then he bowed low at the seething demon.
"Hello, old friend. We haven't crossed paths since my crew defeated your troops and brought down your pathetic bridge system. Remember?" He observed my brother's irritation with a smug smile. "Good times, eh? For us, I mean. I'm sure you had a hell of a time explaining that debacle to your puppet master."
Demon-Tom slowly rose to his feet, then decided his dagger was no match for Victor Álvarez. Instead, he opted for a familiar weapon, and he proceeded to yank the sword out of my thigh.
Agony ripped through me, and shadows crowded my periphery as the blade made its exit. Gasping for breath, I tried slapping my hand to the open gash left behind, but I was trembling too hard to apply the necessary pressure.
Plan B involved crawling away and finding a medic, but my nerves protested, sending sharp bolts of pain down my leg at the slightest movement.
Eventually, I came to terms with the fact that I could only sit here and watch my souls spill out of me, memory by memory.
But Demon-Tom was oblivious to my plight, his attention on the swordsman. "You speak like a fool."
"Oh, my wife agrees." Victor flashed another wicked smile, pulling his curved sword from his leather baldric. "And you know what? I pick fights like one too."
My brother loosed a growl, and the two men collided in a ferocious tangle of limbs and scraping metal while I sat there against an amputated pillar, too crippled to help, too distracted to think. But as the seconds stretched on, I realized Victor didn't require Lady Fortuna's good graces today.
The nomad fought like no one else I'd ever encountered. He was agile, calculated, fluid, and even with an injured ankle, he'd barely broken a sweat.
When Demon-Tom swung low, Victor casually leapt aside. When the Pan struck hard, the miner embraced the attack and seamlessly redirected the energy to his next strike. He outperformed the veterans in the Tournament, and he easily surpassed each of Will's opponents in the Rite.
It was...spectacular.
And sure, I'd known he was a talented swordsman—he'd trained Will, after all—but witnessing him fight with his entire being, fueled by his protective instincts, was something else entirely.
I didn't have the pleasure of observing him for long, though. The demon crows had spotted my murder site, and they dove in teams of five, eager to transform this injured soldier into carrion.
"Really?" I grumbled.
I covered my head as the feathered onslaught fell upon me, shielding my eyes and the only useful, functioning ability I still possessed. Talons and beaks tore at my neck, my leathers, my bloody thigh, and I zapped any birds stupid enough to land on my body.
"Can you speed things along?" I cried into the swarm of wings.
"Apologies!" Victor shouted. Mid-fight, he extracted something from his combat belt. I couldn't make it out through the wall of pests trying to eat me, but I understood his next order well enough. "Hold your breath, Kingsley!"
I dove for the ground just as an eggshell bomb struck stone, releasing a plume of fine, deadly powder in all directions.
Rats!
I buried my face in my arms and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in my leg—lest I kill myself in one ragged inhale. Then, with my eyes shut and my pulse leaping against my throat, I listened to the beat of demonic crows dropping dead all around me. One by one.
Serves you right, bastards.
When the vanadium shavings settled, I gulped down a greedy breath of oxygen and chanced a glance at Victor—and his frighteningly quiet opponent sprawled on the ground.
But Tom's chest still rose and fell with every breath, and the sight of him alive gave my body permission to do the same.
Of course, Victor hadn't left the general unscathed. He'd chopped off the demon's feet, slashed his belly open, and pushed him to the debris, benching him for an inning or two. Just as he deserved.
"Now stay there for a bit, and rest up, yeah?" he taunted, only a little winded. "We'll try again when you're capable of walking."
I breathed a sigh of relief, and Victor shot me a warm smile that told me he knew exactly how grateful I was for his rescue—and for his compassion toward my brother.
But his smile faltered suddenly, and then something happened that didn't make any sense. Something impossible. Something viscerally wrong and unacceptable.
A bloody rapier had found its way into Victor's back—lodging itself in his ribcage where no weapon should ever find itself. Piercing him hard enough to penetrate his leather vest.
I didn't understand what I was seeing at first. Not when the female demon behind him withdrew her sword. Not when Victor swayed there for a moment—dazed, perplexed, and uncertain. And not when he dropped his blade and fell to his knees.
It was only when those brown eyes found mine, fearful and alarmed, that a strangled sob tore at my throat.
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🙃 and so it begins