Endless Knight(7)

I’d managed to hold on to mine until I’d been kidnapped by that militia group. Jackson had saved me from those men, proving himself a hero.

Had that only been three days ago?

Now he was right here with me. And he’d never been with Selena. I wanted his strong arms around me. I wanted him murmuring Cajun French to me in that rumbling voice of his, the words I alone understood. But he felt a thousand miles distant.

I couldn’t stop myself from asking him, “You’re not going to say anything about all this?”


He gave me a cruel smirk, a flash of his white teeth. “This ain’t my party, now is it?” Anger gleamed in his gray eyes.

“No. It isn’t.”


Everyone fell silent.

Despite the tension thick in the air, my lids grew heavier. Sleep was about to overwhelm me, but I feared Selena.

Matthew whispered in my mind —She’ll protect you with her life, until Death is done. If Death is done. She knows you’re his sole weakness.—


And me? Will I hurt them? By accidentally unleashing poisonous spores and such.

—Safe. You have control now.—


At that, I closed my eyes. I could feel Jackson’s gaze on me, even before Matthew said —He stares. He stares. He hungers to know what’s behind your false face. The curiosity burns him.—


I turned in to Matthew, wanting to hear more. False face? Is that why he looks like he hates me?

—Loathe/love. Hurting/hating.—


I don’t understand.

Matthew didn’t reply. Probably staring at his hand, which always meant: subject closed. And I didn’t have the energy left to press.

Finn cleared his throat. “So this Death dude, he wouldn’t, like, trouble himself to come after a second-stringer like me?”


Just as I slipped off to sleep and into dreams, Matthew murmured woefully, “Death comes for us all. . . .”


I’ve lost too much blood; it streams from a wound in my side, dripping to the desert sands.

My enemies have closed in on me. We’ve collected in this place like leaves on a whirlpool. Their calls sound even louder in my head. I’ve already killed four of their strongest, but am now drained of power, injured.

I have no thorns, no vines, no trees to aid me. Nothing grows in this wasted land. No water in any direction, just canyon wall after wall.

And I have no idea how to navigate the terrain, no horse to carry me. As I stumble through a maze of interconnecting gorges, my feet sink into the sand. Going in circles?

There, ahead . . . I see my own blood trail. I have been walking in circles! I lean back against a rock. Why couldn’t I have been gifted with the Mistress of Fauna’s senses?

Hoofbeats begin to echo through the canyon, what sounds like a massive steed. Death? Has he found me at last? I somehow manage to increase my pace, a shuffling run. Sweat pours. Blood pours—


I stumble to a stop. I’ve reached a dead end. Trapped. I spin around as the Reaper comes into view.

He is alone, astride a white stallion with red eyes. He wears black armor, a helmet covering his face. Two swords hang from his belt. A polished scythe juts from a saddle holster. “Empress,” he intones.

“Death,” I bite out, trying to disguise the severity of my wound.

“I watched you battle the others today,” he says, his voice deep and raspy. “Your powers are monstrous, creature.”


“And yours are not?” He can kill just by touching another’s skin. Other Arcana whisper that he prefers to kill with his touch.

But I want to live! I have only eighteen springs, am far from ready to leave this world.

Death tilts his helmeted head. “Your flesh repairs itself. I wonder if the others could even kill you at all.”


“They cannot,” I lie. “Nor can you. So leave me.”


As if I haven’t spoken, he removes his helmet, revealing a shocking sight: his face.

He is . . . beautiful.

His masculine features are even and bold, with a proud brow and nose. His tanned skin and light blond hair make his amber eyes stand out. I guess his age to be no more than seventeen.

He dismounts with a lethal grace. As he stalks closer, I have to crane my head up and up to hold his gaze. He must be over six feet tall. His bearing bespeaks arrogance. Obviously highborn.

His gaze falls on the bloody hand I use to clutch my side. “So many icons. Soon to be mine.”


If he murders me, those images will appear on his hand, my kills becoming his own. Whichever Arcana has all the marks at the end, the last one standing, wins.

Lions roar in the distance. Fauna with her beasts.

Where are my allies? Fool, have you forsaken me?

When Death draws a sword, I spit blood at his face and run to the right; he cuts me off with unnatural speed. I run to the left, the same. I splay my fingers and slash at his armor, expecting to furrow the metal with my indestructible thorn claws.

Sparks flicker, but my claws dull, leaving nary a scratch.

Gasping for breath, I shake my head wildly, thrashing my reddened hair. No poison whispers from my tresses. I raise my free hand and call upon my lotus to appear. Nothing. I press my lips together, licking them. They are numb, cracked. No toxin covers them for a fatal kiss.

I’ve used up my powers earning the four icons on my hand, my glyphs gone dim in this hated desert.