Page 113 of What Fools These Immortals Be
“I—What—” Augustine baulks for the first time, and it is a satisfying expression to see on his face. “You can’t hand me over tothem.”
Asher snorts. “Wanna bet?” he says, but as he takes a step forward, Njáll cries out in pain.
At first, I don’t understand. Njáll is standing close to Augustine, sure, but Augustine is still on his back and cannot possibly have—
Magic shimmers in my periphery, and I may not be able to feel it, but I recognise fae magic when Iseeit. I look at Sam first. “Shield!”
Asher and Vlad are ready, though neither of them is as adept with their blessings as I was. Vlad has Grant at his back and I understand, suddenly, why the Huntsman wants us to keep to ourselves. It doesn’t change that we cannot. Not forever.
I slip my knife from my sleeve and into my hand, fingers curling around the hilt as I scan the room. Njáll is holdinghis side, blood pouring between his fingers and dripping onto the marble floor. Afsaneh is already with him. The hunters are panicking, even the witches among them unsure what to do. Deacon’s wolves are faring better; he has them under control.
They will all be fine.
Meilyr is out for us. Forme.
Magic is usually only visible when a very strong spell is cast, which is why I have not been able to see it since my blessing was taken. Spectra and Sam working on the wards was not enough. But Meilyr is angry and injured and wants to cause damage. I let my vision blur to better focus on unexpected movement, and I have to hope there is enough magic still infused in my blade because it is now an extension of my arm, and I know that as long as I see him, my aim will be true.
Vlad growls. Njáll’s breathing is unsteady, but he will not die. Not here. I turn in a small circle. I feel, somehow, as though Meilyr is mirroring me, preparing to strike.
“Left,” Vlad says, a second before Meilyr flashes into being before me. I dive out of the way, narrowly avoiding a blow, and presumably a burst of magic along with it. My arm curves through the air, blade slashing over Meilyr’s thigh, and he cries out and vanishes again.
The room is loud, panic seeping in where it should not. I daren’t cast a glance at Vlad and Asher, and I know why they’re holding back.
I can kill him.
Even without my blessing, I can kill him. I am a hunter, have been a hunter since I was turned, since I was a witch, since I was a boy.
Meilyr appears again, this time behind me, but I drive an elbow back when he wraps his arm around my throat. He squeezes tight and I tamp down on that lingering instinctualurge to fight for air. I am a vampire, too. Fae might need to breathe, but vampires do not.
This time, my blade digs in just above his hip and he lets go, vanishing again. I snarl, an angry, animal sound. My fangs are out, eyes likely glowing, though I am not hungry.
This fae thinkshecan huntme? No. I let the noises around me fade away. Njáll’s terrifying laboured breathing is the last thing to go. Once I stop Meilyr, he will be safe.
The air shifts. Pressure increases, squeezing my skull. When I spot the shimmer of Meilyr’s magic again, so close that we must both be sharing our next breath, I shove my knife forward, snarling when my blade sinks into flesh.
He reappears because even if there is little magic left in my blade, it is still iron, and it will leech away whatever is left of his own. Asher and Vlad are faster than I could hope for and combined they still might not be stronger than Meilyr, but he is injured, and this time, I do not pull the knife free.
Gasps echo around the room, chatter and surprise, but the moment I am certain that Asher and Vlad have Meilyr down, I stumble over to Njáll’s side. I drop to my knees next to him.
“He needs blood,” I say to Afsaneh without looking at her. She touches my forearm gently and Njáll’s next breath wheezes out of him. Behind me, Vlad snarls and Grant shouts something, but Asher is quiet, which means that Meilyr is staying put, even if he fights.
A hunter drops down next to Afsaneh, her wrist already bare.
“Do it,” I urge Njáll because his eyes are hazy. He did not get enough blood earlier, but if we had stopped for more… I bow my head, listening as he drinks, as Afsaneh urges him to stop, and another hunter takes the place of the first.
I am not hungry myself, though the scent of all that blood—Njáll’s, as well as the hunters’—is doing nothing for my mood. The vampires have Augustine, who is spitting curses, andVlad and Asher shove Meilyr over next to him, Asher having apparently secreted away some iron cuffs from the house. When the second hunter withdraws, Njáll’s face has some colour again and his eyes focus on mine.
“You’re all right,” he says, tone full of wonder.
“I’m not the one who almost died,” I retort, voice thick with emotion and perhaps a little tight from where Meilyr tried to choke me. “Twice.”
He gives me a crooked smile and oh, I wish we were anywhere else right now because I want to kiss him but not in front of this audience. Whether or not itshouldweaken his position, I do not know if it would, and he just showed such strength that I will not risk it.
I grip his hand instead, and when I squeeze, he squeezes back before slowly getting to his feet. For now, I don’t move. I stay on my knees and watch as Njáll turns to speak with Afsaneh, as Deacon and Alwynn move in for more information.
They all fall silent, again, when the Huntsman walks into the room.
Only a handful of them have likely seen a true high fae before tonight, Kieran’s pack notwithstanding, but Vasile’s eyes flare in recognition, and they all feel the Huntsman’s power, whether they are conscious of that or not. He looks as untouchable and ethereal as he ever does when not wearing his glamour, and that discarding of said glamour is a choice, one that makes my breath catch in my throat.
