Page 32 of Court of Wolves

But Az’s mouth opened and his voice filled the silence, rich with power. “Sail. Meet the armada head on.”

They weren’t his words, but that was his voice, and the dark swell of magic was his, too. Any doubt he’d had that the spirits had been raised by his power died when the ghosts leapt to obey him, snapping open sails with hands that shouldn’t have been solid enough for purchase, manoeuvring the ship out of their hiding place. The cold spread through him, his skin cooling.

“You are forgetting,” Samlyn said with cruel relish, “that you possess the power of a saint. It matters not how many ships we have when we have magic at our command.”

Our command. Not Azrail’s—his. He hated it, hated the saint, and hated the ghosts who sailed them closer, out into the open where they faced Kraeva’s ships.

He waited for Samlyn to raise his hands, to draw on the same twisted magic that compelled Az to obey. He waited for horrors and nightmares so severe they would haunt his sleep forever, images he could never unsee, screams he could never unhear.

“There are many ways a death can be dealt,” Samlyn remarked as the wind carried them further, faster. The warm wood seemed to hum beneath their feet. “A dagger can wound, but so can a fist with enough strength behind it. Cold can kill every bit as well as fire. And a storm can shred sails, can create hailstones large enough to blast holes in the hull of a ship, can summon a lightning strike worthy of a sonnet.”

Azrail’s skin began to crawl.

“Summon a storm, forsaken one.”

No. Az ground his teeth and dug in his heels. The command had his hands raising, power roiling from inside him, but he panted, clenched his jaw, andresisted.He screamed inside his head and thought of Jaro and Maia, of Ev and Zamanya, of Arkand Kheir and Isak and Bryon. He fought as he’d told Jaromir to fight, as he’d fought when he heard Maia scream.

“This again,” Samlyn sighed like he was being tedious. “You’re only harming yourself, you fool. There’s no fighting it; you’ve consumed our blood.”

Consumed their—

Fuck.No.The dark, bitter liquid forced down his throat. Herbs and brackish water and… the blood of saints.

Azrail’s response was so severe that his body actually twisted towards the railing and he vomited into the sea of the Massac Bay, momentarily freed of the weight of Samlyn’s command. It returned in the next moment, crushing and cruel. Az grunted at its ruthless grip, the sound dangerously close to a whimper.

“Like it or not, youwilldraw a storm around those ships,” Samlyn said, brushing a long finger over the railing, his fingernail scratching the wood. Az could have sworn the woodbled.“Oh look, their gun ports are glowing orange. Do you think they’ll fire?”

He spoke as if he didn’t care either way, but Az saw the curl of amusement in his mouth, the bright flare in his sunken eyes. He loved having Azrail under his control, loved watching his torment.

“If I were you,” Samlyn commented, angling his head closer to Az as he thrashed inside his own body, digging claws into his magic, refusing to let it obey the saint, “I would unleash that storm now. Before they blast holes in our ship and I leave you to die here, unremembered and unloved.”

Az gnashed his teeth, his breathing coming quicker. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t snap all the vicious words he wanted, so he held his power tighter, howling inside his head,screamingat his magic to resist. The life and earth that lived in his core was frantic to sink into the rotten wood of the ship, to rip it apart.In the end the command was stronger, the saints bloodshoved down his throat was stronger. It was his dark magic that unfurled in a slow curl of smoke from his palms, covering his skin like swirls of ink.

Stop!Azrail wrenched on the power, begging it to fight the compulsion even as fighting began tohurt,even as warmth trickled over Az’s upper lip, bringing with it the taste of copper. He pleaded and screamed and held tight to his magic, but it was like trying to hold back the tides of the ocean, like a single fae against the force of a tsunami.

“Oh, dear,” Samlyn said with a little tut. “Do you think that will strike us?”

Az’s head snapped up to look at the cannon blasting through the air, glowing as red hot as a poker. The split second of distraction cost him. Dark power erupted from him in a wave so strong it knocked him back from the railing. His head spun, but the dizziness seemed to overpower his command to be silent because the roar inside his head finally poured free. His shout shook the clouds that rolled in, shook the waves beneath them until sails swung and ropes danced, shook his rib cage as Azrail wavered on his feet.

A spiralling column of shadow knocked the cannon away before it could pierce the ship, ripping a gasp from Azrail’s chest. He hadn’t chosen to do that, hadn’t reached for his magic and told it to intercept the cannon. Samlyn did.

Az dug his fingernails into the wooden railing, grabbed his magic, and wrenched it back, smothered it, kept it trapped where it couldn’t rise to Samlyn’s command.

The saint groaned. “I’m getting tired of this. I came here to do a job, and you’re becoming irritating, forsaken one.”

Azrail’s face twisted in a sneer as he held tight to his magic, ignoring the pressure that built in his head and chest. Pain shattered his skull, bringing tears to his eyes. Blood flowed overhis lip, trickled from his ears, his nose, but he held on. He would die before he obeyed a fucking saint.

“Unleash the storm, and I will get you a meeting with your precious mate.”

A gasp cut through Azrail’s snarl and he spun to face the bastard. “Swear it.” With the command pressing on him, forcing him into Samlyn’s control he shouldn’t have been able to speak, but Maia was his strength. She was the core of steel fortifying him when he grew weak, the fierce defiance in his heart, the unwavering faith in his soul. While he could still move his hands, Az raised his arm and gave the saint his middle finger. For Maia.

Samlyn was getting irate now; it was there in the flare of his nostrils and the way his eyes kept darting to the naval force getting closer, the fortress town just beyond the shore, the circle of stones atop the hill—his true goal. If he wanted that circle, he’d make this vow. Az wished he could feel the satisfaction of victory when Samlyn drew a sharp fingernail across his own palm and held it out, but all he felt was pressure and pain and the command ripping his insides apart. He carved a sharp fang through his palm and slapped it against the saint’s, close to vomiting into the sea again.

“Use your power over death to wreck those ships against the shore and kill any survivors, and I will secure a meeting with your mate.”

“I want at least an hour with her.” The words were guttural, twisted by pain as blood ran faster from his ears, his nose. He could bear it. For his mate, to see her again, to hold her, he could bear it.

“Thirty minutes,” Samlyn countered.

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