“. . . A better power than these wings . . . if you don’t know how to use them.” Aramastun’s voice from faraway.
“Ah. Fuck.” Skar’s voice.
I twist around.
Aramastun Wyvox has appeared behind Skartovius, in his shadow, directly behind where the shadowwalker brought Jinneth as the exit for his portal.
Skar hasn’t even turned around before muttering the words, because he doesn’t need to. He can feel the Night Judge’s looming presence.
Spinning like a specter, Skartovius swishes one hand, turns in one fluid motion—batting Jinneth aside so she’s no longer sandwiched between the vampires, throwing her ten feet across the roof—
As Aramastun impales the nobleblood through the chest with his greatsword.
“NO!” I scream. My knees buckle.
Aramastun snarls in Skar’s ear as he lifts him off the ground with the greatsword. Blood sprays from the cavernous wound at my mates’ back. “Things would have been so muchsimplerif you’d just handed over your manor peacefully, Lord Ashfen. And the Loreblood girl.”
“One . . . I could do,” Skar croaks, spitting up blood. “The other? Impossible.”
I don’t knowhowthat sword missed Skartovius’ heart, it looks so fucking wide and menacing. But my mate is stillthrowing taunts and that’s all I need to hear to rip myself into action.
I turn heel and charge toward them, screaming even louder. My mother is on her side away from the conflict, groaning, unmoving, but safe for the moment. My vision tunnels as I focus entirely on the winged monster and my next ten steps.
My other mates have already doubled back and fall on him together.
Aramastun slides Skartovius off his sword, slashing blood at my mates in a wide arc that keeps them at bay.
Garroway ducks under the swing, somersaults, and comes up with his daggers. He sees the opening, calling out ruthlessly, sliding into Aramastun’s guard.
We’ve had a bit of an upgrade since the Faith Ward. With so much silver at our disposal—stolen handily from the North Mines—and so much Silverblood already circulating, we decided to hand some of that loot over to our resident smith in the Firehold. He’s no Vanison Shirin, but he managed to craft weapons out of the soft metal.
Now Garroway is shoving twosilverdaggers into the demonic bloodsucker’s torso, voicing his triumph at the same time—“Ha!”
Aramastun doesn’t light up like a dry tree in summer. He doesn’t catch fire at all. The malleable silver daggers snap after the first inch of penetration, and now it’s Garroway’s turn to voice a muttering, “Shit,” before Aramastun slams the hilt of his sword again that beautiful bald head and cracks it open.
Garro collapses on weak legs, wobbling to his knees.
“Who is the realsilverblood, hmm?” Aramastun taunts, flapping his wings.
Of course, it’s as Imis said. The demonic blood inside the Night Judge is tinged with silver. That’s what she meant—rather than fightingagainst it, he fightswith it.It’s part of Aramastun’slineage, and drinking my Loreblood has awoken that bloodline power.
So, great, now we have an ancient winged vampire lord who is impervious to silver, my strongest mate impaled and bleedingveryrapidly on his back, and a roguish dhampir mate with his head cracked open like an overripe fruit, swaying in place.
The battle is quickly slipping through our hands, and I haven’t even swung a sword at the bastard yet, much lessreachedhim.
Vallan Stellos is next in line. Seeing his brother-in-arms and cub fall in rapid succession ignites his bloodrage immediately. His roar is incensed and hideous as he charges over Skar, swinging his war-axe with all his force behind it.
CLANG—
The sound of his axe meeting Aramastun’s greatsword is the loudest clashing of steel I’ve ever heard. It’s such a powerful blow that my ears ring, Vallan slides back on his heels, and even Aramastun is pushed back in the air on his wings from the sheer force blast.
They come at each other again, waving their weapons in a blurring fashion, in a way I could never keep up with as a mere human.
Vallan stands tall, the only one of my mates it seems who can equal the Night Judge in terms of pure stature and strength. Aramastun flies around him, hovering a few feet off the ground, his leathery wings pumping endlessly.
Lukain Pierken runs up with his father’s silver saber, flanking the demon lord. Unlike Garroway’s newly made silver daggers, Heskel Angul’s sword was crafted in antiquity with a much purer process, and it doesn’t break on contact. It slashes into Aramastun’s side and makes him hiss in anger.
Hope leaps in my chest as I reach them, finally seeing my mates score our first hit.