Page 143 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Then she smelled it. Smelled him. A crack in the illusion, or perhaps an effect of the wards. While the one holding her looked like Loren, it was actually Azriel.

His mind had been infiltrated, and Melia would use him to kill her. In his dhemon form, he was much stronger. Despite her stronger vampire bones, they would not hold up against him for long. Another piece of his endless torment.

Ariadne pressed the heels of her hands to his hips, desperately trying to remember Kall’s instructions on how to get out of this as the air squeezed from her lungs. Of course it had to be one of the positions she struggled with the most in practice. Her saving grace was the Loren illusion. If she saw the dhemon beneath, Azriel or no, she would not be able to focus.

“Azriel,” she said on an exhale, “let me go.”

His hold loosened. Somewhere beyond the illusion plaguing his mind, the bond listened to her voice. He responded to her command despite himself, and she wished she knew what he thought her to be. Why was he trying to crush her? It made no sense. Not when she had seen his techniques.

Rather than dwell on it, Ariadne moved. She took advantage of the hesitation by pivoting to bring her back to his chest, hips low. Wrapping her empty hand up and around his arm, she pulled it taut to her chest, then brought her feet together and, using her hips to leverage him off his heels, rolled him over her shoulder.

Azriel-Loren landed on his back, then scrambled to grab her again. She stepped back, swatting his hand away. Again, he lunged. This time, his fingers wrapped around her ankle, and she stumbled. Pivoting, she swung into a crouch behind him as fast as her vampire body could move. It remained her only advantage against a dhemon.

Before Azriel-Loren could respond, Ariadne dropped her sword and snaked her hand around his neck, fitting the crook of her arm tight against his throat. She tucked her face close, just as Kall had instructed to protect herself from possible head-butts, and grasped her own bicep. Azriel had used the same move against Loren in their duel. Now she would use it on him, praying she knew when to let go.

“It kill,” Kall had told her when explaining the technique weeks ago. “Let go to let live.”

Her illusioned husband in her hold writhed, digging his fingers into her arm to pull himself free. She did not let go. Did not let him gain the upper hand so long as he did not remember who she was.

At least not until his body went limp. Her heart thundered, and she released him. She had taken too long, and though the illusion continued around her, Melia could be anywhere. Azriel-Loren seized on the floor before her, his body jerking as it slowly regained consciousness. If it were not for Loren’s face plastered over that of her husband, she would not have been able to grope through the illusion for her sword and walk away.

As it were, Ariadne turned to follow the gust of magic swelling across the dance floor. Phulan had spent their weeks together ingraining the feeling of magic in Ariadne through incessant repetition until she was certain she could track it to its source. The more magic conjured, the stronger the currents.

And Melia used an exorbitant amount of magic for her illusions.

“Do you think you can kill me, Cressida?” Melia’s voice echoed all around her as though coming from the Caersans summoned from her own mind.

That the Desmo could see into her memories made Ariadne’s skin crawl; it was not something anyone knew Melia capable of until the incident in the chateau. She continued forward, focusing hard to find a seam to the illusion sewn around her. There were telling signs; the sand underfoot, the lack of a dress hem around her ankles, the scent of death in the air, and most notably, the cool desert wind that rustled her loose hairs. Melia’s strength was waning, and with it, the images.

Ariadne walked straight toward the wall behind which the magic seemed to pulse. Her mind told her to stop—to find a door or window. Instead, she plowed on. She closed her eyes, bracing for the impact.

But none came. The wall and surrounding illusion dissolved as she broke through the boundaries to find Melia on the far side, the tip of a sword against Azriel’s throat. He still lay on the ground, eyes closed and blood dribbling down his neck from the point. Had she walked in a circle without realizing?

“Drop your sword.” It was not a request, Melia’s gaze burning with hate. “I don’t want to kill him. Trust me. This will be far more entertaining.”

Swallowing hard, Ariadne did as she was told. She took a step closer and raised her hands before her in surrender. “Let him go.”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

Another step. “Keeping him here will not accomplish what you desire.”

A small smirk flashed across the mage’s face. “And you presume to know what I desire?”

“I know you want him to suffer.” Closer. Closer. “I know you want him to pay for what he did to you.”

The smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. “You know nothing. Step back.”

This time, Ariadne did not do as she was told. She hesitated. Considered. Then she rushed the last few steps between them, lowering her elevation to grab Melia’s forward leg, tuck her head against the mage’s belly, and shove her to the ground.

The mage landed, stunned, in the sand, and the last of her illusions shattered. The Azriel on the ground became a dead guard. A decoy.

A fresh wave of hot anger swept through Ariadne. She bared her fangs and kicked the sword out of Melia’s hand, but the mage grabbed her grounded foot and yanked. Ariadne fell hard, tucking her chin to her chest to keep from smacking her head upon impact.

Then another illusion blossomed around them. A forest at night amongst a sea of ferns. Broad evergreens stretched high above them, blocking out the starry sky above. Nocturnal animals rustled through the underbrush and scurried up trees.

Before Ariadne could focus on the new surroundings, she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around the unseen mage. Melia slammed back down. A fist hit Ariadne in the cheek, and for a moment, she reeled back as the pain cracked through her face. Again, Melia tried to writhe out of her grasp, but she held firm with one hand before dragging her body to lie on top of the mage.

Another punch. Another scramble to get away. Something hot trickled from her nose, and a familiar metallic taste blossomed across her tongue.

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