Windwitch (The Witchlands #2)v(85)

Overhead, the mountain bat screamed again. Wind billowed against the tent, shaking the sides with rhythmic beats, as if the creature hovered directly overhead.

It wasn’t attacking, though, so Aeduan ignored it.

The girl’s flimsy sage-green gown was soaked from the muddy floor. Her skin was ice, her bare toes almost blue. She shook, but didn’t fight as Aeduan turned to the sack tied over her head.

She was even younger than he’d expected—and grimy too, her black hair wet and matted.

Whatever tribe she’d come from, she had been captured by the Red Sails at least a few days before. Which made no sense to Aeduan. Surely, his father wouldn’t work with slavers. Not after everything.

Run, my child, run.

“I won’t hurt you,” Aeduan repeated. The language came so naturally to his tongue yet sounded so strange in his ears. “I’m here to help.”

The girl gave no reaction. No indication that she’d heard his words at all. When he tried to guide her toward the tent’s exit, though, she let him. And when he said, “I’m going to carry you now,” she didn’t resist.

Aeduan bundled her up and stood. She was so light, so fragile. A bird in his demon arms.

Outside, the mountain bat’s cries abruptly ended. The tent shook less and less … then not at all.

The creature had flown away.

“Close your eyes,” Aeduan told the girl as they neared the tent’s flap. He didn’t want her to see the death he’d left behind.

But she refused. Like Moon Mother’s littlest sister who wouldn’t close her eyes when Trickster betrayed them all, this little Owl kept her lashes held high.

That was her choice then, Aeduan decided, and he stepped back into the slaughter.





TWENTY-NINE

Well, Merik had walked right into this trap. He’d seen what he wanted to see—the dead assassin—and sauntered directly into a room full of Royal Forces.

In a breath, Merik counted twenty soldiers blocking him from the bar’s exits, with at least as many blades among them all.

Excellent odds. For the soldiers.

But Merik had one advantage: his magic. A single breath, and the heat was alight. A second breath, and he was moving, spinning into a backward kick at a cup of ox tea steaming on the nearest table with burst of winds, of rage, the boiling alcohol launched through the air.

A hissing rain of ox tea seared into the oncoming soldiers.

One man was clearly ready for this trick. He had dived low and was now zooming in close, ready to tackle.

Merik let him come. When the man collided, Merik rolled onto his back and grabbed tight. They somersaulted, the man’s momentum carrying them over … Where Merik instantly fishtailed on top.

One punch to the nose. Blood erupted. A second punch to the ear with Merik’s winds looping in along for a wind clap. The man’s eardrum ruptured; he screamed.

Good. The word tingled in Merik’s fingers as he snatched the officer’s cutlass free. This felt good. Vicious. Vengeful.

Merik turned. His blade arced up and clashed against a matching naval sword. He swiveled his pommel around this new soldier’s wrist. A single tug, and the man tumbled down. His cutlass fell, and Merik retrieved it easily.

Now he had two swords. His odds were improving.

Except, of course, for the crossbows that several soldiers now aimed his way.

Down charged Merik’s foot. Crack! went a table, toward the floor, and out flung two more cups of ox tea. Then Merik dropped behind the overturned table as bolts twanged loose. The table crunched, flagons shattered, and a flash of heat and light ignited.

One of the candles had fallen off the chandelier, sparking nearby ox tea. A wall of fire would soon erupt between Merik and the soldiers.

Which meant now would be a good time for Merik to dive for the bar. He dropped both cutlasses before flipping behind the counter, just in time to feel the heat and hear the sound as true fury let loose.

In seconds, the Cleaved Man was aflame.

Squinting against the smoke and the fire, Merik searched behind the bar for any sign of Garren. In the corner of the Cleaved Man, the dark door still called to him. Shadows still sang.

At that thought, the full expanse of Merik’s power awoke. Air funneled in, carrying sparks. He launched out from behind the bar. As fast as muscles and magic could carry him, he dove toward the four soldiers, all that stood between him and the door at the back corner.

One solider tried to run. Merik snapped his winds like a whip. Two men toppled over.

Merik’s odds improved again. He couldn’t resist grinning, sending thick, scorching air down his throat. Light, smoke, flame—these were his elements. His friends. He’d been born from them, a creature of half flesh, half shadows. And to these elements he would return.

Sharp as any edge.

The last two men charged, firing their crossbows. Too fast for Merik to dodge, the bolts hit his stomach, his thigh. But in a flash of power that rippled through him, shadows coalesced in his veins.

Merik had just enough time to think, No pain, before he yanked out both bolts and kept moving. Then he strode through the corner door, made almost impenetrable by fumes and fire.

The Fury was coming.

*

Vivia sat at her desk in Pin’s Keep, recalculating numbers she’d logged a few days before. The formerly bleak, negative totals would soon be gloriously positive. While yes, her stomach panged a bit at the thought of hiding the latest Fox shipment from her father, the warmth building in her chest quickly drowned out the guilt.