Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

Roark tilts his head back and laughs.

“Don’t you fucking drop it,” he commands me, assuming I know what the hell I’m doing, before he makes a motion toward the Unseelie in the fire circle. “Run,” he tells them. The flames vanish and they obey.

He tugs at the back of my jacket and his breath is warm against my neck. “They’re gone. Back, Smith. I’ve got you.”

“I don’t think... I can’t move the shield,” I warn.

“Better run fast, then. On three.”

Mentally, I count to three before I turn and sprint. The ley line shivers when the vines finally break through. Roark’s right beside me, flinging curses and hexes to clear our path as the plants try to trip us. We’re almost to the edge of the garden, almost to the gate in the fence and our liberty.

On my left, something shatters through one of the house’s windows, hurtling out of the darkness toward me. I stumble to avoid the longest thorn, the one that would have eviscerated me, but the second still slices across my chest. A familiar burning pain whitens the edges of my vision.

Roark makes an inarticulate sound of rage. His hand slashes and he shouts something that sounds ancient and furious.

The creeper explodes into shards of ice and ichor.

He’s so focused on me that he doesn’t notice the vine behind him. He grunts when it digs into his back, partially flinging him forward as it slices up his spine. He lands with a groan.

I drag him up off the ground. There’s so much blood. Roark’s gone pale and there’s nothing but rustling around us. He tightens his grip on his rapier and tries to push himself free of me but his face is so pained and something wraps around my ankle and—

Enough.

Roark

Smith unleashes. He goes up like a fucking pyre.

He’s not even speaking words. He just turns and vines fall at his feet, sliced with hexes. A swath of destruction surrounds him. Instinctual magick. Like watching my mother play with ice.

Except Smith’s playing with a ley line. Scorching, blazing, like he did in the field.

I’m drunk on it. Power rolls off him in waves, hitting me over and over again until I can’t tell where my glamour ends and his channeling begins.

My back drips blood. I squint against Smith’s terrible light.

It’s like standing in the sun for too long. Burning. Bleaching out, like bone.

The living column of thorns at the other end of the garden rallies and flings another salvo of vines toward us.

I help, or try to. I swing my sword, but Smith does it all. He pushes power at me in a searing rush. He’s yelling something, but his voice is lost to the roar of the flame and I can’t understand it.

A hot wind whips his hair around his face and his eyes glow.

Too much.

That’s why he wants me to leave.

This is it. A chance for freedom from Phineas Smith. Allow him a glorious death and attempt to move on with my miserable life. He knew this was coming. He’s been preparing himself for it.

He’s burning alive, and so am I.

He jerks when I grab his hand, and the electric shock of it slams through me, sizzling over my nerves. I fight the pain and try to shape the power, use it to help us instead of letting it burn him out.

If this is the end, he won’t die alone.

The pain stops, and all that’s left is intent: an impenetrable shield. Dragon scales of liquid fire. Layer after layer after layer. Over and over, as long as Smith keeps channeling the ley line. Until the very end.

The power vanishes without warning and it throws me off balance, into an awkward crouch. Beside me, Smith kneels, panting, staring blankly at the shimmering web in front of us.