Page 7 of Blood On His Lips

Martine and Numair battled close to the Windwarder; they’d either make it, or they’d die.

The mage attacked in pulses, working in concert with the archer. Three arrows violated my body; one in the thigh, one in the shoulder, and one in my side.

Stumbling against a wall, my power crumbled. I fought as slowly as any common warrior now, even slower because of the pain and my unfortunate attire. I should have changed clothing before leaving.

If luck favored us, the footman had escaped to give warning. Numair and Juliette were too far for me to reach.

I pulled on my Skill again, straining, and winked out of sight, a steady drip of my blood staining the sidewalk.

I cursed. I couldn’t make my blood invisible once it left my body. It offered a trail for the warrior who stalked me, following the droplets.

Betrayed by my own blood.

“Shields!” I screamed, hoping they heard me between the din of battle and the wind. Hoping it was the right decision.

A cry for shields signaled the last stand. For Low Fae, the strain of maintaining them during the heat of a fight usually led to a quicker death from the rapid power drain.

The scream attracted my stalker. He whirled towards me.

I threw one of my daggers, and the warrior fell, the point embedded in his eye. I ran towards Numair and Juliette. My hands and feet went cold as my body struggled to heal my wounds. I would die here. Numair and Juliette would probably die as well.

Every fight always felt like the last, every survival by a blade’s edge of luck. For years I’d slept with teeth gritted in post-battle tension.

I snarled, yanking the remaining arrows out, and slid down a wall, blackness creeping up.

So much for a white flag, Renaud.

If I survived this, I’d have Édouard shoot me full of arrows until I learned how to fight through the pain. He’d be delighted to do it.

You will survive,Darkan said.And I will teach you to defeat pain myself.

ChapterThree

Pushingto my feet because there was no time to indulge weakness, I shoved aside physical pain and ran towards my family, power itching through my arms, instinct my spell book.

Instinct, and perhaps whatever knowledge Darkan had buried in the cemetery of my mind for me to raise when needed.

I flung an arm towards Numair and Juliette to focus my intent, aware the gesture marked me as an amateur.

“Let me in!” I shouted when encountering their natural resistance.

A revenant of that knowledge burst from its tomb, possessing me until I wasn’t Aerinne but was this dark thing that existed in the crypt of my soul.

I had a moment of panic asthe otherness of unexpected power eclipsed me. My avatar stirred, an incongruous kitten digging claws into my ankle. I channeled the excess towards the avatar and returned to myself in a stinging psychic snap.

There was no time to falter, no room for weakness.

I grabbed our shields and linked them, my shoulders bowing. This was what it meant to be a Bridge. This weight.

Our personal protections tripled in strength. I staggered to a knee, then pushed up despite the boulder crushing me to the ground. I’d forgotten how this felt, like suffocation by fire. It was a newly awakened ability, one of an inherited duo, and I was still hazy on the details.

I straightened as a black-clad fighter slipped in front of me, tall and lean under ubiquitous leather armor. Cloth covered their head and neck, revealing only their eyes, a cross between green and blue, rimmed in deep gray.

I’d seen those eyes—

They attacked, wielding a long blade rather than a sword. In moments, I assessed my opponent was female, and was kicking my ass.

The corners of her eyes wrinkled in a tell-tale sign of a smile. Renaud was correct—I was going to have to learn to control my facial expressions better, especially while under stress.

---