Endless Knight (The Arcana Chronicles #2)(58)

And where was Tess, the third piece of this puzzle?

Through breaks in the fog, I made out Joules’s sparking skin. “Feck you, beast! That all you got?” As Ogen’s hoofs pounded, what sounded like a giant whip cracked. Then again.

The suspension cables were snapping!

Neither Joules nor Ogen seemed to notice that the bridge was rippling like a wave. Joules kept lobbing javelins to explode at the Devil’s feet, taking out chunks of concrete. But the lightning didn’t faze Ogen—only enraged him.

He drummed his fists across his chest, then tore off for Joules. More concrete dropped.

So now what was their plan?

“Tess, take out Death!” Joules yelled over his shoulder. “Ogen’s on me tail!”

Movement caught my eye. Tess.

She stood a few dozen feet away between scorched trunks, shaking, a dagger in her hand. Was their backup plan to stab Death? I could almost hear their reasoning: if the World Card couldn’t control her powers, she should at least be able to plunge a knife.

But this girl was terrified, watery eyes wide in her face. The knife trembled. Though she didn’t seem aware of it, her feet . . . weren’t touching the ground.

Heaving breaths, Death rolled to his back to kick against the edges of the net. He would be free by the time Tess reached him. Just in time for him to stab her.

“Strike, Tess!” Joules sounded even farther away.

When she looked at me with terrified brown eyes, I shook my head in warning. “Not enough time. Free me, and I’ll help you!” I blinked. Were her clothes growing baggier on her body, right in front of me?

“I-I’m so sorry,” she cried, and fled in Joules’s direction.

The Tower must have realized she wasn’t following orders. He yelled, “Gabe, take the Reaper out!”

From somewhere above the fog, Gabriel answered, “It’s done.” A shrill whistle sounded as he began to dive.

Death met my gaze, his eyes promising revenge.

I narrowed my own. “I told you to watch your six, Reaper.”

Yet just before Gabriel attacked, I heard another explosion.

Then: “NO SWIIIIIMMMM!”

Ogen was plummeting—along with the entire bridge. Joules went careening down one edge, scrabbling for a handhold. At the last second, he snagged one of those suspension cables.

How long could he hold on to slick metal? He couldn’t regenerate, wouldn’t survive that fall.

When a flailing Ogen sped past the shore, helpless in the water, I raised my face. “Gabriel, save Joules!”

At once, that whine changed trajectory.

Too late. The Tower fell.

“Oh, God. . . .”

Just before Joules crashed onto the jagged rocks below, Gabriel scooped him up, rocketing back up into the clouds.

From a distance, Joules yelled, “Not how this was supposed to go down, Empress! Teeth’re coming, leaving you a wee bit fecked.”

Right on cue, the first vehicle in the Teeth convoy appeared at the top of the rise, another rumbling up behind it—at least ten armored vehicles moving in. A cloudy-eyed man thundered orders from the gun turret of a Humvee, and the other men gave battle cries, beginning to fire down on us.

All to avenge a male who had enslaved their minds. “Kill the unclean one!”

Being called that was really getting old. Like it’d been funny the first two times . . .

Those battle cries faded when Cyclops launched himself at the driver of one jeep. As blood splattered the windshield, the vehicle never braked. At the edge of the canyon, Cyclops leapt to safety, but the jeep rolled onward over the precipice, carrying its screaming occupants to their deaths.

The other two wolves joined the fray, snatching out throats as bullets sprayed them—and the opposite shore. Bam bam bam. Grit kicked up in a line along the edge of Death’s net. He growled with fury when one bullet caught him. Then another.

Somehow, Death rose up, freed at last, setting off for cover. Though he was pouring blood from his left shoulder and his right side, he didn’t quicken his pace as bullets plugged the ground just inches from his feet.

He reached another boulder not twenty feet from me and dropped behind it, long legs stretched out in front of him. His head fell back against it, and he squeezed his eyes to the sky.

The sight sent me adrift, my mind recalling another time when he’d lain like that, his face raised to the sun. He’d been petting my hair as I rested my head on his lap. . . .

Now he was shot. Trapped. When I felt a pang of what might have been pity, I gave myself an inner shake. This situation was what I’d dreamed of: Death without his armor, multiple Arcana gunning for his head.

My pity was unfounded. With a bellow, Death shot up from his cover and launched one of his swords overhead. The blade flew like a throwing dagger—tip over hilt across the width of the river—to skewer the Teeth’s leader through the throat.

Yet there were scores more, gearing up their larger guns. Another male took up the charge: “Kill her!”

With a black look, Death returned to his cover, gripping his remaining sword.

He and I were both screwed. If I ran, they’d gun me down, assuming Death didn’t get me first. If I remained, the Teeth would capture me and do . . . worse.

Blinding streams of silver began descending on the convoy. The first speared the hood of the largest vehicle; lightning erupted, exploding the truck high up into the air. It plummeted, spinning like a dropped pinwheel, ejecting charred bodies with each rotation.