Page 90 of Claws of Death

Reaching out with my senses, I pray that I won’t be stabbed in the gut while I scan the ground for a droplet of wet.

There’s no running water answering me, but the clouds above sing like a chorus of the Guardians.

Come to me,I command the water.

It doesn’t move. It’s too high up for me to draw it into droplets and make it rain onto the battlefield.

Clang!A flash of steel tears me from my thoughts, and I leap back in time to avoid a Flame pressing Kaira’s sword into my nose where she blocked his strike.

My heart stops a beat at the certain death I’ve just escaped.

“Thank you,” I mumble, stabbing beneath her arm and piercing through the weak spot of the Flame’s armor under his lifted arm.

Myron shoots me a sideways glance, sword locked in battle. The clear warning resonates through the thread connecting us—not the mating bond, I realize, but the promise I made to him.Promise me there’ll be a tomorrow, Ayna, and I’ll fuck you, then.

Myron nods as if he feels it too. It’s a binding promise. A fae promise. If I die, I’ll have broken it.

Not that it matters, but what will the promise do to him if he can’t hold up his end of it?

The Flames press forward, heat welling in waves as they switch rows whenever one of them tires or falls. It’s a fucking nightmare we can’t win.

At least, the bushes have reduced to ashes. That makes one less obstacle to watch out for, but now the two battles are melting into each other. I can see it as I turn to the side, standing back to back with Myron so we have the best chances to keep our promise: The wagons are burning, canvas an inferno, and wood disintegrating.

If we’re lucky, we won’t need to take care of the weapon at all. The fire might destroy it all on its own. The horses have long bolted, throwing off their riders, who are now fighting on the ground. They are wielding balls of fire and silverblades that identify them unmistakably as Flames, no matter what their armor looks like.

Too many of the human soldiers are still standing, their heads protected by the helmets hiding most of their hair and necks. It must be smothering, but at least the fire won’t singe them where they’re covered.Erina must have had this armor made for them, not to trick us but to bolster the chances of their survival.

With a deep breath, I summon my Crow power once more, swiping at the Flames who come too close with one dagger while I sheathe the other to have better aim with my magic. Silver light rips from my open palm, striking like lightning, but when it hits the Flames, they don’t die. They stagger back, yes, but they don’t tumble to the ground the way they’re supposed to.

Guardians above?—

It’s not only my magic. Myron’s isn’t as effective on his targets either. And as I watch the Flames stand in their own fire, I understand there is something more at work than just their power.

Myron

No ideahow long we’ve been fighting those fire-loving bastards. I’ve lost track of time with the countless strikes of Crow magic I’ve delivered. My shield has long shattered, as has the fairy general’s and the thin lining of protection Ayna summons without even realizing. Bruises are already developing beneath my scratched armor where I’ve taken minor hits, and I’m certain I’ve sacrificed an inch of my hair where the fire lashed through my shield earlier.

Kaira seems to be the only one who isn’t afraid of the fire. With her siphoning ability, she can grab onto the Flames’ power and wield it against them—in small portions, whichdo practically nothing to harm them, only to redirect their magical blows when they come too close for comfort.

It’s useful, though. Both Ayna and I would have been singed more times than I can count, and it doesn’t matter what we pit against them, they simply won’t die. Unless we drive our blades into them, of course, but it’s near impossible to get close enough to do so.

Silas, Tata, and Clio are still fighting what was supposed to be human soldiers. At least, they don’t hurl fire at them every other breath. The cavalry seems to have been Flames, though. And where the fuck are Royad and Herinor? They haven’t emerged from the wagon, and despite the fire that was there mere minutes ago, the canvas covering the cargo hasn’t burned away like on the other two.

I swipe my sword at a Flame stepping into my range, gritting my teeth as I cut through leather and flesh.

Beside me, Ayna delivers a silver strike that rattles the marrow of my bones, but the Flames don’t shy away like they’re supposed to. They grin at her, using the moment she needs to collect herself to land a blow to her knee.

Ayna hisses like a real Crow Fae, countering with a slice to the Flame’s throat. I don’t watch him go down, already facing my own opponent.

Tori keeps melting rocks and sending them at the Flames, but there are too many, and what looked like a promising tactic isn’t killing those bastards either. It’s like their armor won’t allow for any magic to go through.

“Use your blades!” Ayna shouts as if she is having the same epiphany at the same time. “Their armor is magic repellant!”

“Fuck!” Tori steals the response from my mouth, pulling a knife from his boot and throwing it right at a Flame’s neck. The female goes down but crawls forward, blood spilling on the scorched ground. A trail of fire follows her like an armor of its own.

Ice crawls from Tori’s boots up his legs and torso, covering his leathers in tiny crystals right as the female grabs for him, sending a blazing inferno of fire at him. The flames die before they can as much as singe a hair on his head, and the female’s eyes widen with horror as Clio leaps from behind her mate, grabbing her neck and twisting it with a crack.

“That was close,” Tori notes, sword already swinging at the next Flame who dares come too close. But it’s not enough.

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