Page 73 of Lord of the Hollow Court
Braam took a step back with his better leg, stacking his body to lunge. It was a bluff—he could do no such thing. But his glamour could.
Before he could direct his doppelgänger, Esmee flew toward him headlong, a burst of blue flame spiraling beside her.
Chapter Thirty-Five
...And Listening
Braam barely had time to avoid the wisps of flame, let alone move his doppelgänger. The glamour crumbled on contact. Braam felt the edges of an icy burn from Esmee’s blue flame, too close to him for comfort. He hit the floor of the ballroom with a sickening crunch.
A skittering sound followed it. Braam looked up, knowing before he saw it. His cane had snapped in two.
Esmee stood over him, hands on her hips, a triumphant sneer on her face. She kicked the closer half of the cane away from him, just to be sure he’d have no hope.
Setting his teeth, Braam forced himself to sit, then crouch. Esmee was too cocky. With the ability to throw flames, Braam needed to face her in close combat.
He hoped his body was up for it.
He rose with a guttural sound, teeth clenched, face twisted in pain. He curled his hands, ready to fight in the oldest way known to the fae. Hand to hand, claw to claw.
Esmee lifted her own hand aloft, her long nails curving like a bear’s.
He closed the space between them before she could swipe him, driving low and rising as he grasped her throat. She twisted out of his grip, bringing her nails down in a thwarted attack that still left his back afire. While she was off balance, he used a glamour to distract her, hooking her foot with his and knocking into her with his upper body.
Esmee wheeled her arms as she fell, clawing at whatever she could. She caught his shoulder and a sliver of his chest. A second later, while Braam panted, she was back in a crouch, ready to spring up like a panther. Braam quailed. She wasn’t the slightest bit winded.
“Give it up, old man,” she ground out.
Braam replied with another glamour and used the cover of his doppelgänger to limp away. Too quickly for him to widen the gap between them, Esmee clawed through the glamour, leaving his side vulnerable. She slammed into him, taking him down and throwing the whole of her weight after him so he landed on his bad hip, her body checking his a half second later.
He heard a pop. A second later, the pain caught up with him. He let out a quick cry of agony, then had to breathe rapidly just to cope with it. Braam shifted his upper body, using his arms to push her off of him.
Claws met his face, barely missing his eye. Esmee de Groot scrambled back, finding her feet. He planted a hand on the hem of her dress before she could escape him, pulling her off balance as she tried to distance herself from him. He would not let her; Esmee began every attack from a distance. If he had read her correctly, this was no bluff: she was uncomfortable with close fighting. Teeth bared, he threw himself forward, palm driving upward into her solar plexus.
She gasped as he hit his mark.
Braam cast a quick glamour, plunging the ballroom into starry darkness. He cloaked himself, moving in a ripple through the night sky he’d created.
Esmee jumped to her feet. Blue flame flared from her palm, but Braam knew it would not be enough to reveal him. He was far older, and well-practiced in glamours.
Yet she was cleverer than he’d realized. She began to spiral through the darkness, flame held aloft. He felt its cold as he neared, felt it threatening the integrity of his glamour—as if picking it apart thread by thread.
“M’lord?”
Misman.
Braam cringed. He’d nearly called out in reply.
A delighted, wicked grin began to spread across Esmee’s face. She abandoned her spiral, drawn toward the sound of Misman’s voice. Braam nearly panicked—and then he spotted it: an opening. Shifting until he had sight of Esmee’s back, Braam charged forward, forgetting that his hip would not carry him that way any longer. A loud crack filled the midnight space.
Esmee whirled immediately, drawn by her primary target. She cast the flame his way, darting under it in search of contact. Braam could not move quickly enough to avoid both. He chose the claws over the flame.
Her hands raked down his chest, and his hold on the glamour evaporated. Like a black velvet curtain cut from a window, the Hollow Court’s ballroom revealed itself, the space now overly bright.
Blood dotted Braam’s chest. His shirt hung open, its buttons tinging onto the floor. Esmee faced his panting, wounded form, mouth lifting in another sneer. She knew it. As did he.
The Lord of the Hollow Court was out of tricks.
Katty arrived in the ballroom moments after Misman. She grasped the butler’s arm, squeezing when she saw the scene before her.
