Page 174 of A Bond so Fierce and Fragile
“Listen to me,” he hissed back at her. “Raine has her. He won’t let anything happen to her!”
Lessia’s eyes still burned, that defiance he loved making them almost glow in the early daylight, so he continued, ushering out the words and turning her fully toward him so she wouldn’t have to watch the bodies falling from the cliffs—although he could do little about the cries that cut off when they broke against the harsh water.
“We can’t abandon this ship, Lessia.” He shot a look around, grateful when her eyes followed. “The hope driving these people is already fragile. If we leave, it’ll be lost.”
Her mouth twisted a few times, eyes darting to either side as if she struggled to keep them ahead, but finally she nodded. “You’re… you’re right.”
“Stay with me.” Merrick wanted nothing more than to kiss her again, but there wasn’t time, not with the ships closing in on them and the losing battle he knew was being fought on the cliff above.
He’d seen and heard it all before, and knew what the screams of horror meant, the ones that made everyone standing across the ships wince as they cast glances upward.
He could only hope his friends would find a way out of it.
Lessia seemed to understand because she drew a deep breath before forcing her body forward, unsheathing a few daggers hanging by her waist and holding on tightly to their hilts.
Even if her hands were steady, Merrick struggled to do the same, struggled to follow his own damned orders, because seeing her here, in the midst of this…
He wanted her far fucking away. But there was nowhere to flee, and she’d never forgive him if he gave in to the urge. So instead the Death Whisperer turned forward, allowing the souls to take a step closer to their world, readying them for the right moment.
The one coming too soon.
“We need to keep the line,” Merrick screamed when the humans before him began backing up, nervous features twisting into fearful ones as they noticed the forms some of the shifters had taken as the ships sailed into the cove.
Snakes and massive felines seemed to be the preferred choice, long, thick bodies weaving around tall masts and roars joining the drums and war cries from those opting not to shift—or from the humans and Fae who couldn’t.
“They are human underneath!” Merrick continued bellowing when a particularly ferocious cry drifted toward them from a pure-black feline twice his size. “They bleed and die like the rest of us!”
Still, a few of the men turned and ran, and the air that was already filled with screams and the smell of iron—both from weapons and from the blood of the fighting above them—shifted into the despair and terror Merrick was entirely too familiar with.
Men always thought war was about glory and bravery… but it wasn’t. It was dirt and blood and fear and doing whatever it fucking took to stay alive. There was no chivalry, no elegant swipes of swords or perfect footwork. Only desperation to stay alive, and sometimes a bit of luck.
“Get ready,” he said through his teeth when Lessia followed him as he stepped forward.
She didn’t look at him, but she nodded, her eyes already sweeping across the animals and people, seeing who’d come onto their ship first.
It wouldn’t be any of the ones in the bow, though, not if Merrick had anything to say about it.
Ardow, of all people, began echoing his message when more people backed up, screaming, “Hold the line! Hold the line!” as the ships grew bigger and bigger, soon casting theirs in shade.
“Here we go,” Thissian muttered on his other side as the screech of wood tore through the air, letting them know the ships were prepared to cast out brows to lock their ships together, not allowing anyone to sail away. Or perhaps they were readying to sail their ships into their own vessels.
Merrick had seen both happen before.
From just staring at the chaos above, Loche appeared to have awoken to the threat before them, and Merrick was glad Iviry shadowed the regent when he stormed forward, encouraging some of his more hesitant men to do the same.
When the ships were about forty feet away, Merrick turned to his dark-haired friend. “Ready?”
Thissian shot him a grin, one Merrick knew was a feeble attempt to mirror his brother’s but that he still appreciated.
“Already ahead of you.” Thissian jerked his head so his raven mane whipped the air, and Merrick realized his dark eyes were glittering, his skin glowing—even the color of his hair seemed to deepen.
They’d used to joke about that growing up, that Thissian and Kerym always looked their best after battle, while the rest would be bloodied and dirty and pale from tiredness.
But after Thissian had admitted to him it nearly killed him to look in a mirror, knowing the energy bristling under his skin, making him feel like he could take over the world, came from the dead bodies strewn across the battlefield, Merrick had shut it down every time Raine brought it up.
Giving his friend a quick tap on the shoulder, Merrick also faced forward, hoping the forewarning Loche had given his men about his magic would be enough not to send more people running, as he couldn’t stop the wind from filling with stickiness, the magic layering over the others even when he tried to keep it contained to a certain area.
Lessia moved closer to him when the air roiled, and for a second, everything around him quieted as the whispers from those who’d already passed—many in situations like this—exploded between his ears.
