Page 8 of WarBride

Jerking upright, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and peer into the shadows at the very back of the room. There, crouched behind a set of tall-backed chairs, is a small, pale figure in a prayer veil.

“Aurae!” I run to her, stepping over and around dead bodies, and wrap her in my arms. She’s trembling so hard, I fear she’ll break into pieces. Sobbing, she buries her face in my shoulder. “They’re dead!” she chokes. “They’re all dead! And outside . . .”

“I know.” I draw back and find she’s clutching a knife, no doubt taken from one of the dead men. Her hand shakes so hard, she can scarcely grasp it. I take it from her. I have no training, no skill with weapons. It wasn’t considered seemly for a princess to be taught what my mother deemedmasculinearts. Which means my sister and I are little better than a pair of birds in a snare, waiting to have our necks wrung. But I’m not going down without a fight. “Come on, Aurae,” I say, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. “I’m getting you out of here and—”

The door bursts open. I freeze, one hand still holding my sister, the other brandishing the knife. A dark figure steps into the entry room. His harsh breaths sound like low growls. The light from the fires outside silhouettes his sharp, spiked armor, making him look like some sort of spined demon. He drags a cruel sword along the floor, and blood drips from its edge as well as from his mouth.

Aurae catches her breath, stifling a scream. Just that little sound is too much. The creature jerks its head and fastens a predatory gaze on us, its face momentarily illuminated in redlight. It is a beautiful face, perfect features, pale and pristine as a carved statue of marble. Black ooze pours from its eye sockets, running like tears down its cheeks. Its lips curve back from long bloody teeth, and it throws back its head, howling like a wolf.

Then, springing over the bodies of Wulfram and his men, this monster, this walking nightmare, hurtles straight at my sister and me.

I move to throw myself in front of Aurae, lifting my knife in feeble defense. Before I can comprehend what is happening, a small hand snatches the knife from my grasp. There’s a blur of motion—a graceful arc of a slender arm, deflecting the cleaving blow of that fae blade. A twirl, light as a dancing spring blossom on a breeze, all fluttering veils and skirts.

Then the knife enters the black eye of that ravening beast.

He stands frozen in shock, his gory mouth gaping. A last gurgle bubbles from his throat. A stream of blood mingles with the black tears pouring down his face. He topples, collapsed in ruin, choking out his dying breath.

Aurae stands over him.

My little sister. Graced by the gods with the gift of dance.

She stares down at what she’s done. At the blood on her hand from where the knife entered. At the fae monster lying at her feet. Slowly, her eyes rise to meet mine, her expression a mask of horror. “Ilsie?” she says, my name a trembling question on her tongue.

Then her eyes roll back in her head, and she drops to the ground beside the corpse of the fae she’s just slain.

A scream chokes in my throat as I fall to my knees beside her. “Aurae!” I call, pulling her into my lap and slapping her face, desperate to rouse her. “Aurae, no, no, no, you’ve got to wake up! You’ve got to wake up, darling. We can’t stay here.”

A shadow falls across us. I don’t look up, don’t waste that extra, precious second. I simply lunge for the knife protrudingfrom the fallen fae’s eye socket, wrench it free, and hold it up in defense over my sister’s still form. Only now do I take in the man standing in the doorway. Not another ravening monster.

“Artoris,” I breathe.

He scans the room, his gaze flitting over the bodies of the slain guards before it finally lands on me. “Ilsevel,” he says, his voice deep and dark, underscoring the screams of the dying priests outside. “What are you doing? You must come with me. Now.”

I shake my head. “My sister—”

He strides across the room, ignores the knife in my hand, and grabs my shoulder. “She doesn’t matter,” he says, wrenching me to my feet. “You’re the only one who matters here. Leave her. We can still get out of this.”

“No!” I struggle against his hold. When he won’t release me, I lash out with the knife, cutting into the thick fabric of his robe but failing to connect with flesh. “I’m not going anywhere without Aurae!”

Artoris turns sharply on me and, without hesitation, slaps me across the face. I double over. The sting of pain is nowhere near the absolute shock of the act itself. Yanking back my head, I stare up at him, one hand pressed to my cheek.

His teeth flash in a grim smile. “No time for a lover’s quarrel, Princess. I need to get you out of here.” He grabs my arm again and starts to drag me along, little caring how I stumble over the corpses. “You can tell me how much you hate me later if you like, but I’m not going to let anything stop me from saving your life.”

We’re halfway across the room, making for the open door. Suddenly another shadow fills that space, broad shoulders nearly blocking out the light. There’s only enough fireglow from the windows to illuminate the black band of warpaint streaked across his face and eyes which burn with magic fire.

“Artoris Kelfaren,” the fae warrior says, raising his sword and pointing it at the mage. His teeth flash like knives. “You’re coming with me.”

4

TAAR

I’ve never stood this close to a death mage before.

I’ve met them in battle many times, but always at a distance. They prefer to remain removed from the melee, casting their vicious curses from afar. It is too easy to think of them as unholy beings, wielding their godlike powers over life and death. Too easy to forget that they are what they are—mere humans.

This man is very human. He is tall for one of his kind and broad as well, but still several inches shorter than any one of my men and most of my women. His black robes are torn, his face streaked with mud and blood. Pale eyes, flashing with mingled fury and fear, blaze into mine. The point of my blade hovers mere inches from his breast. A single lunge, and I could run him through. The temptation is great, especially in light of the deaths this man brought to pass within this very hour.

Take him alive.

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