Soren is at my back, siphoning tendrils of water from the saturated stones, sending them down the throats of everyone who charges into his path.
“Now, now. This won’t do at all.” Melité makes atsksound. “We can’t have the party breaking up so soon, can we?”
I look over in time to see her step between two mottled soldiers, each holding a crossbow. Her eyes are on Arwen and Alaric as they reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Him,” she purrs, smiling.
My whip flashes out toward them, but it’s too late. The soldiers fire. Time shifts into slow motion as the bolts arc through the air. I see the horror on Arwen’s face as she looks over her shoulder, the split second of realization as she watches the inbound projectiles and can do nothing to stop them. She cannot push him out of the way, she cannot dodge in front of him. She cannot even cry out in warning.
Two bolts pierce Alaric’s chest.
Straight through the center, where his heart beats.
Where his lungs pump.
A death stroke.
He falls to his knees, hands reaching uselessly for his wife, face a tableau of disbelief. Her wail splits the night as he slumps over, his gorgeous eyes unseeing, his pale hair turning scarlet as the blood pools beneath him.
Arwen’s incoherent laments morph into a word. One word. Onename, repeated over and over again, so full of agony I know, as long as I live, I will never forget the sound of it.
“ALARIC!”
Above her screams, the unfathomable cackle of Melité’s sick laughter.
My fury rises, a blinding thing, unfurling inside me like a tornado. I crack my whip and send a zap of lightning straight for her. One of the mottled soldiers sees it coming and dives to shield her. He writhes as he is electrocuted, then collapses before her in a steaming, twitching heap of black-veined limbs.
Melité has the gall to mock me as she slinks behind the protective line of soldiers. “And here I thought we were becoming friends, Rhya.”
I advance on them, whip cracking out again and again. Behind me, Arwen’s continuous screams rip through my heart.
“Go to her,”I tell Soren through the bond.“Go to your sister.”
I can feel his solemnity, his endless grief, a milder echo of hers. This loss is one he shares. He and Alaric were close friends for decades, long before marriage made them brothers. He wants to race to her, but he is holding back. Hesitant to leave me to this battle alone.
“Go,”I urge.“I’ve got this.”
There is a brief pause. Then,“I know you do, skylark.”
And I do.
I do have it.
I have never felt so in control, even with the iron’s lecherous influence. I take out half a dozen soldiers in the time it takes Soren to cross the courtyard, covering him as he runs. They are husks by the time they hit the ground.
The second Soren’s arms close around her, Arwen’s screams taper off into violent sobs that tear from her throat.
“I’m going to kill her!” she shrieks, voice cracking. “I’m going to kill that sea-bitch with my bare hands!”
“I should like to see you try,” Melité calls back, sounding bored.
With a roar, Arwen tears out of Soren’s grip and barrels across the courtyard. She does not seem to realize she is barefoot and covered in blood, without even a dagger to fight with as she runs headlong toward a line of enemies. She is blind with grief. And with retribution. The need for it burns through her, searing in her veins. I can feel it lashing across the courtyard from here.
“Soren!”I call, alarmed.“She’s going to get herself killed!”
“I’ve got her.”His inner voice is labored as he sprints after her.
“Get her out of here, now. Go with Vaughn. Get to the ship. I will meet you there soon.”