A Promise of Fire (Kingmaker Chronicles, #1)(40)

“Just giving you a scar to match Beta Sinta’s.” I cock my head. “I’m rather impressed with my aim.”

Otis’s eyebrows, or what’s left of them, snap together. “Beta Sinta?” He didn’t even know who he was fighting, or that attacking the people with me would constitute a major act of war. He didn’t care. “Traitor!”

“Blah, blah, blah.” I pretend to yawn.

“Cat!” Beta Sinta bellows. He throws off two men, plants a dagger in the sternum of another, and then sweeps his leg around to bring a fourth one crashing to the ground. He created an opening for me. “Run!”

Fierce, skilled, powerful—utterly commanding—right now, he’s hard to ignore. Good thing I’ve had practice.

“He wears the scar better,” I say, turning back to Otis. “It’s much manlier on him. By the way, how’s your mother?”

Otis bares his teeth, gathering magic in his palm again.

Are you stupid?

Now I remember. Yes.

My sword raised in my left hand, I catch the whip of flame with my right one and then send it back. Instead of letting go, I strike one, two, three times.

Otis screeches, red blossoming across his face, neck, and torso.

“Not much fun, is it?” I keep striking until his tunic hangs in shreds. The skin beneath is raw and blistered, oozing blood. When he attacks again, his fire doesn’t faze me. It only strengthens what I’ve already claimed.

I laugh at the flicker of fear in his eyes. Using the same magic never means doing it with equal power. Otis knows I can skin him alive.

“This is for me!” I slam the whip down on his head before redirecting it into a burning cage. I’ve never done it before, but I’ve watched Aetos turn his fire into a living sphere hundreds of times. At first, it wobbles and is more egg-shaped than round. Then it encases Otis as I gradually draw it down toward his feet. He shouldn’t be able to burst through. Only the creator of the sphere can break it. The magic originally came from him, though, so I’m not sure where that leaves us. In a gray area, to say the least.

I detach myself from the flames as soon as Otis is contained and look around. Kato is up again and still fighting, but his mobility is undermined by the serious injury to his leg. Carver is next to him, his blade moving so fast that no one can get too close. He’s intact, but tiring. Flynn is bloody, and his left arm is hanging uselessly at his side, but he’s still swinging with his right.

I don’t see Beta Sinta anywhere, and the way my stomach drops makes me ill.

Something crashes behind me, and I whirl. Beta Sinta is fighting like a madman and coming straight for me. Our eyes collide. He won’t reach me, not before the Fisans do. There are more than a dozen of them left, and there isn’t a spark of magic among them. Only swords, men, and muscle, and I don’t have enough fire whip to overcome more than a few. I have three minutes, maybe four, before they massacre the Sintans and are on top of me.

Someone darts around Flynn’s bad side and grabs my sword arm. I slam my other hand into his nose along with Otis’s magic. I let too much out at once, and the last of the fire whip leaves me. The Fisan’s face melts under my palm, leaving my hand hot with gore. I wipe the sludge on my pants and turn in uneasy circles, waiting for the next attack. My heart pounds as our situation sinks in. There are too many Fisans. The odds are impossible. The Sintans can’t win.

An idea takes hold. If Beta Sinta dies, I can go back to the circus. There will be no binding vow. No one who knows about me. I don’t have to fight. I could turn invisible. When it’s all over, I could slip away.

The thought presses on my chest like a lead weight. Not stopping to question why, I push it aside and fall to my knees, raising my hands to Olympus.

“Cat!” Beta Sinta roars.

I glance over my shoulder, my eyes narrowed.

“Get up! Fight!” His eyes are wild. His face is stark and splattered with blood.

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn back around. I block him out. I block it all out—clashing metal, roaring men, the stench of fear and blood, and the feel of dust turned to thick, reddish muck sucking at my knees.

“Help me,” I whisper, not knowing what will happen. If anything will happen. “Please.”

The world drops away. My stomach heaves as I tumble down a long tunnel and then land with an icy splash, sinking deep into black water. My ears hurt and my lungs burn by the time I figure out which way is up and start kicking.

I break the surface and gulp down air, slapping water out of my eyes. I’m adrift on a vast ocean. It’s a dusk of shadows and gloom. The water is gray and churning where a storm brews on the horizon. Waves roll in—powerful, angry, dark.

“Poseidon!” My God Father might not be listening. He might not care.

I swim, looking frantically around. The waves are monstrous, and there’s no land in sight. I rise up on a swell and then plunge back down on a stomach-churning ride, salt spray stinging my eyes and nose.

The rough surf suddenly splits, the slippery back of a giant sea serpent slicing the water only an arm’s length away. I gasp and flail back. Its tail thumps my leg, and I let out a shriek. I know exactly where I just landed, and Poseidon’s Ocean Oracle isn’t known for its tolerance. It’s either going to help me or eat me. Right now, that’s anyone’s guess.