A Clash of Storms (A Shade of Vampire #50)(48)

I looked back up and noticed green lightning striking down through the swirling column of clouds. It shot right into Azazel’s head and ignited a sheet of bright green light that expanded, and I knew it would bring us instant death. The pit in my stomach convinced me of it.

Just as Azazel roared, preparing to deploy that destructive force, Draven dropped his sword and charged ahead. He rammed into Azazel and broke his contact with the green lightning. Azazel cursed as they fought one another, throwing punches left and right.

The cloud column retracted slowly, but the sky remained blanketed in darkness. Fear squeezed my heart as I watched Draven tackling Azazel, who was easily three times his size. Yet Draven held his own.

Azazel drove his fist into Draven’s side. Draven grunted from the pain and came back with a brief succession of right and left hooks, finishing with a decisive uppercut before he jumped back, doubling over as he heaved and brought a hand up to his ribs.

Draven’s lip was split, blood trickling down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, then straightened his back and breathed in deeply.

He’d bashed Azazel quite well. Red bruises were swelling his right eye and the corner of his mouth.

“Did you really think a physical fight would bring me down?” Azazel sneered in Asherak’s voice, turning his head to one side as he spat out some blood and a tooth.

Draven shook his head with a satisfied smirk.

“That wasn’t my intention,” he replied dryly.

Azazel’s grin faded, his eyes still burning green as he glanced down and instantly patted his chest. His pendant was gone.

I exhaled sharply, noticing the snake medallion glistening in Draven’s hand as he lifted it to show Azazel exactly what he’d meant. I couldn’t help but stifle a grin.

“Nice,” Jovi muttered behind me.

I glanced at Ori, who nodded briefly. He moved his lips, whispering a spell as he stepped forward. Azazel was livid, baring his fangs at Draven.

“You must be joking,” Azazel muttered, his hand touching the patch of his chest where he’d always felt the pendant.

The young Druids summoned their energy, glowing all white as they transferred it to Ori, whose palms lit up as he fashioned a long broadsword out of thin air and darted toward Azazel.

The sharp weapon looked solid but incandescent, and Ori jumped and swung it down with all his might. The move caught Azazel by surprise. He was still reeling from the shock of losing his precious medallion. Ori’s blade hit Azazel’s neck with a spine-tingling clang but bounced back, as if he were made of steel.

“Oh, please,” the Prince of Destroyers snarled, and swatted Ori away with a bright green pulse. The young Druid gasped as he fell backwards and banged his head against the stone floor. He rolled over to the side, grunting from the pain and blinking fast as he tried to stay conscious, while his sword dissolved into white sparks and vanished.

That wasn’t the outcome I’d been hoping for.

The young Druids were as shocked as the rest of us, except for Draven, who kept his emotions to himself. He was even trying to shut himself off from me, but I knew exactly what he was going through. Our connection ran deeper than anything we’d had before, despite his efforts.

The look he gave me, however, told me more than words could ever convey. A pang in my stomach warned me of what was coming next.

“I seem to keep asking these rhetorical questions today, but did you really think you could defeat me if you just took my pendant away?” Azazel asked, his fingers touching the part of his neck that had rejected Ori’s blade.

“One can only hope.” Draven muttered his response, the gold snake restlessly moving in its eight-loop, hanging from the broken chain wrapped around his fist. Its ruby eyes shimmered green as Azazel looked at it, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Asherak and I are bound for all eternity, little Druid,” he said, his voice low and cold. “His power flows through me, and it isn’t bound to an object anymore. It hasn’t been for centuries. That being said, I must commend you for your efforts. I can see you put some work into this pathetic strategy of yours. It’s a shame you didn’t think of joining my ranks, instead of getting yourself and your friends killed here.”

Draven glanced at me again, and my heart tied itself into a painful knot. His gray eyes flickered black. I felt his anger, his grief and his despair. I shook my head slowly, my eyes wide. I understood what he was about to do.

My worst nightmare was coming true.

“I doubt it’s pathetic,” Draven retorted. “But you’re right. I did put in some effort. I even learned the Soul Fusion spell for this.”

Azazel, with all his might and amplified size, stilled at the mention of Asherak’s final spell. The ritual through which his soul could fuse with that of another Druid. The same process through which the ancient dark Druid had merged with Azazel.

Judging by the speed with which the color drained from his face, Azazel hadn’t thought about another Druid doing the same. After all, there weren’t supposed to be any Druids left, and, besides, who would be crazy enough to take on the curse, anyway?

Deep inside, I knew the answer.

I shook my head.

I wasn’t ready for this. I’d known, deep down, it might happen, but I’d prayed to all the powers out there, including the Daughters, that it would not come to this.

“No, Draven, don’t!” I darted toward him, but I was pulled back. Phoenix had come around, his hand gripping my wrist. His face was ashen, and confirmed my worst fears—that he was ready to let Draven do this. But I wasn’t.