Page 123 of Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

—andleapt.

Time slowed. When my stomach dropped out beneath me with the sudden jerk of weightlessness, I was utterly terrified. And as Atrius fell to the ground, one hand outstretched to reach for me, that terror was shared between us.

I wondered if he was thinking of the promise he made me. I was.

But there was no time to be afraid. I wanted to live long enough to see the Pythora King’s death.

Or at least the death of this fucking lizard.

Rigid determination fell over Atrius’s presence. His hand opened. I recognized what he was getting ready to do.

I’d move when he did.

The world shook as the slyvik careened against a wall, turned so fast my neck felt like it was about to snap, then leapt again, leaving me clinging to it in another stomach-churning freefall.

I prayed to the gods that this thing was a male, as I jammed my dagger as hard as I could beneath its tail.

And at the same time, a fine mist of salty, acrid blood filtered into the air, as Atrius’s magic seized control.

A spasm rocked the slyvik’s body. I couldn’t let go yet, not with it this far into the air. I clung to its tail as it whipped from stone tostone, clawing deep gauges into the granite as it writhed in pain. Still, it slid down with each leap.

Another stomach-dropping jolt.

From the ground, Atrius’s focus was entirely on us. I could feel his magic attempting to manipulate the creature’s blood, albeit with limited success—slyviks, it seemed, were as resistant to blood magic as they were to most other weapons.

My shoulder was killing me. My left arm was struggling more and more to cling to the slyvik’s tail, now slippery with blood. I’d slipped a little—the hilt of my blade was now just out of reach, lodged into the beast’s flesh.

In the rare seconds of stillness, I reached for it. My blood-slicked fingertips barely managed to brush the hilt.

Weaver fucking damn it.

I managed to push myself a couple of inches further up its tail when —

My stomach lurched as we fell— three terrifying seconds of utter weightlessness.

My breath jerked from my lungs.

I’m going to die,I thought, matter-of-factly, and then used the momentum from that fall to throw myself forward.

It was a miracle I didn’t topple to my death. A greater one still that my hand actually wrapped around the hilt of my weapon.

Below me, I felt Atrius’s presence, strong as a heartbeat—shaking with the effort of the magic he was using to pull the beast down. Erekkus was at his side now, bow drawn—ready to make the shot. Not close enough yet. Not quite.

With the last of my strength, I hoisted myself onto the slyvik’s back—just for a moment, just long enough to throw myself off it.

Just long enough to aim my blade at its wing, thin and membranous and spread wide for me in this critical second.

I lunged. My blade tore open the delicate skin as I fell.

I hit the ground hard. Everything went distant and fuzzy. The sound of the slyvik’s scream of pain sounded as if it was underwater.

“Shoot!” Atrius commanded.

Three arrows lodged into scaly skin. The slyvik’s agony rang clearand vivid in the threads—oddly mournful. It fought death the whole way, thrashing with increasing weakness. But finally, the creature slumped to the rocks.

I pushed myself up just as it fell, its final breaths labored, before slowly fading.

The air was, once again, unnaturally quiet.

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