Hunt braced himself, settling into that place that had seen him through battles and years in dungeons and Sandriel’s arena.
“Get ready, Athalar,” Fury called. The war machines halted, launchers primed.
The helicopter flew over Lunathion’s walls. Hunt unstrapped himself from the gunner. The Bone Quarter was a misty swirl below as they crossed the Istros.
Gratitude shone in Danaan’s eyes. Understanding what only Hunt could do.
The Old Square and glowing Gate at its heart became visible. The only signal he needed. There was no hesitation in Hunt. No fear.
Hunt leapt out of the helicopter, his wings tucked in tight. A one-way ticket. His last flight.
Far below, his sharp eyes could just make out Bryce as she curled herself into a ball, as if it’d save her from the death soon to blast her apart.
The brimstone missiles launched one after another after another, the closest arcing toward the Old Square, shimmering with lethal golden power. Even as Hunt plunged to the earth, he knew its angle was off—it’d strike probably ten blocks away. But it was still too close. Still left her in the blast zone, where all that compressed angelic power would splatter her apart.
The brimstone hit, the entire city bouncing beneath its unholy impact. Block after block ruptured in a tidal wave of death.
Wings splaying, lightning erupting, Hunt threw himself over Bryce as the world shattered.
91
She should be dead.
But those were her fingers, curling on the rubble. That was her breath, sawing in and out.
The brimstone had decimated the square, the city was now in smoldering ruins, yet the Gate still stood. Her light had gone out, though, the quartz again an icy white. Fires sputtered around her, lighting the damage in flickering relief.
Clumps of ashes rained down, mixing with the embers.
Bryce’s ears buzzed faintly, yet not as badly as they had after the first blast.
It wasn’t possible. She’d spied the shimmering golden brimstone missile arcing past, knew it’d strike a few blocks away, and that death would soon find her. The Gate must have shielded her, somehow.
Bryce eased into a kneeling position with a groan. The bombardment, at least, had ceased. Only a few buildings stood. The skeletons of cars still burned around her. The acrid smoke rose in a column that blotted out the first of the evening stars.
And—and in the shadows, those were stirring demons. Bile burned her throat. She had to get up. Had to move while they were down.
Her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She wiggled her toes inside her sneakers, just to make sure they could work, but … she couldn’t rise off the ground. Her body refused to obey.
A clump of ash landed on the torn knee of her leggings.
Her hands began to shake. It wasn’t a piece of ash.
It was a gray feather.
Bryce twisted to look behind herself. Her head emptied out. A scream broke from her, rising from so deep that she wondered if it was the sound of the world shredding apart.
Hunt lay sprawled on the ground, his back a bloodied, burned mess, and his legs …
There was nothing left of them but ribbons. Nothing left of his right arm but splattered blood on pavement. And through his back, where his wings had been—
That was a bloody, gaping hole.
She moved on instinct, scrambling over concrete and metal and blood.
He’d shielded her against the brimstone. Had somehow escaped Sandriel and come here. To save her.
“Pleasepleasepleaseplease”
She turned him over, searching for any hint of life, of breathing—
His mouth moved. Just slightly.
Bryce sobbed, pulling his head into her lap. “Help!” she called. No answer beyond an unearthly baying in the fire-licked darkness. “Help!” she yelled again, but her voice was so hoarse it barely carried across the square. Randall had told her about the terrible power of the Asterian Guard’s brimstone missiles. How the spells woven into the condensed angelic magic slowed healing in Vanir long enough for them to bleed out. To die.
Blood coated so much of Hunt’s face that she could barely see the skin beneath. Only the faint flutter of his throat told her he still lived.
And the wounds that should have been healing … they leaked and gushed blood. Arteries had been severed. Vital arteries—
“HELP!” she screamed.
But no one answered.
The brimstone’s blasts had downed the helicopter.
Only Fury’s skill kept them alive, though they’d still crashed, flipping twice, before landing somewhere in Moonwood.
Tharion bled from his head, Fury had a gash in her leg, Flynn and Amelie both bore broken bones, and Ruhn … He didn’t bother to think about his own wounds. Not as the smoke-filled, burning night became laced with approaching snarls. But the brimstone had halted—at least they had that. He prayed the Asterian Guard would need a good while before they could muster the power to form more of them.