Page 144 of Fortune's Blade

The scaley version faded after a moment, having made its point, leaving me staring at the man’s furious features. But all I could see was Louis-Cesare, dead in another world whose rules I didn’t fully understand. I didn’t even know if I’d get him back if he died in there, or if we’d be forever parted, his body left in that hazy place with no way home to me.

I wouldn’t even be able to bury him, and that thought was so enraging that I went for Steen’s throat irregardless, tearing into him like I had the fey on Antem’s back.

Only this time, it worked.

I felt the pixie’s magic rip into me from all sides from the spells still snapping over Steen, felt Steen himself pounding away at my ribs with a fist like a sledge hammer, felt my bones break when they never did.

But I also felt his skin rip, his artery snap, and his blood, so much blood, fill my mouth and gush everywhere: over my chin, across my face, and down my throat. The latter would have disgusted me at any other time, but now I gulped it down to make room for more, trying to drain him dry, to take him with me. Because I was pretty sure I was dead, with bones snapping everywhere now.

But I wasn’t going alone, I wasn’t if all the demons in hell came to carry me off!

Because my teeth were so far into his flesh that they’d have to take him, too.

And it felt like they were trying. I could feel them vaguely tugging at me, pulling me away. Little demons with tiny hands but surprising strength. But I fought them and I fought them hard.

Because he wasn’t dead yet.

He should have been a hundred times over by now, but dragons don’t go down easy. I could feel his heartbeat in my throat with every gush of red, could sense him struggling weakly beneath me. Could smell his fear on the air and dead men don’t feel fear.

Dead men don’t feel anything, and neither do dead women, so I must be alive, I must still have a chance. And I took it, tearing at him some more with everything I had left, even as the world pulsed and darkened around me. Ripping the already severed artery part way out of his neck and seeing it spew everywhere, in bright droplets that seemed to glow in the darkened hallway, like fiery rubies on the air.

And across Louis-Cesare’s face when he picked me up, when he pulled me back, when he cradled me in his arms, while weeping and screaming and stomping a boot into Steen’s face repeatedly, until there was nothing left but mush.

I smiled at that, with blood dripping from my mouth, and spat out a piece of the bastard’s flesh into what remained of his face.

Ha.

Dhampir.

You bitch, I thought.

And then I passed out.

Chapter Forty-Five

Dorina

“If you’re going to do it,” Marlowe hissed. “Do it now!”

“I’m trying.” The Pythia had wedged herself into the limited space under the outcropping with us at her side, and was muttering something I couldn’t hear beneath her breath. I assumed it was an enchantment of some sort, but it was not one I knew. Her magic was strange to me, and based on Marlowe’s expression, it was to him as well.

“Well, try harder! We’re getting annihilated out there!”

This was undeniably true. Our troops had done well against the yeti creatures, but the gods had now entered the fray, and they were quickly winding this up. The Pythia had placed a silence spell around our little bolt hole, cutting down on the din, but I could still hear the constant sound of ice splintering as shards were blown off the frost giants, leeching away their strength before they could replace it.

Not that there was much material for them to work with anymore. The snow and ice, which had once been knee deep on the vast plain, had mostly been absorbed, showing the dark colored sand underneath in great swaths. Even the mountains were shedding their pale cloaks, as the frost giants nearer to their heights pulled strength off them before running to the forefront, to take the place of their faltering brothers.

Yet it wasn’t enough. The gods were relentless, and despite their withered appearance, were far stronger than us. This was a last stand, but it wasn’t likely to be a victory.

But it also wasn’t over yet. Because the redheaded witch had climbed back on top of the rocks, and as she raised her hands to the heavens the staff shot something skyward. I didn’t understand what she was doing for a moment, as there was nothing up there but crows, hundreds of them, waiting for the feast that followed every battle.

But then, out of nowhere, soft flakes started sprinkling down. Just a few at first, delicate and ephemeral, like the one that landed on Marlowe’s lashes. And melted before our hand could raise up to touch it.

Yet it was not alone. More fell and then more, not as individual flakes anymore but in clumps, faster and faster. Until a snow storm swept across the valley, with winds howling and waves of white lashing our enemies and blowing across our army, allowing them to heal.

Several of those nearby who I had thought finished must have had a spark left in them still. As the snow blanketed them, I saw the cracks in their bodies begin to fill in; shattered and missing limbs regrow; and the ice spikes on their heads, which they seemed to use to store additional strength and which had withered away to nearly nothing, begin to swell. After a mere moment, they were on their feet again.

They were tough, this army, but they were still losing. I kept hearing the great craaaaacks as more energy bolts calved soldiers in two. And the resounding thuds as giant bodies crashed to the ground, sending blasts of ice and hail everywhere. One colossus hit down only a few yards in front of our refuge, shattering into chunks and showing me the battlefield through a haze of ice.

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