So Ithan sprinted for the nearest human, a teenage girl in her school uniform. The fuckers had chosen to strike in the morning, when most people would be out in the streets on their way to work, kids on their way to school, all of them defenseless in the open air—
A snarl slipped out of him, and the girl, bleeding from her forehead, half-pinned under a chunk of cement, cringed away. She scrambled to push the cement block off her lower legs, and it was him—his presence that was terrifying her—
He shoved the wolf, the rage down. “Hey,” he said, kneeling beside her, reaching for the chunk of cement. “I’m here to help.”
The girl stopped her frantic shoving against the block, and lifted her bloodied eyes to him as he easily hauled it off her shins. Her left leg had been shredded down to the bone.
“Hypaxia!” he called to the witch, who was already rising to her feet.
But the girl grabbed Ithan’s hand, her face ghastly white as she asked him, “Why?”
Ithan shook his head, unable to find the words. Hypaxia threw herself to her knees before the girl, fishing another firstlight vial from her satchel. One of a scant few, Ithan saw with a jolt. They’d need so many more.
But even if all the medwitches of Crescent City showed up … would it be enough?
Would it ever be enough to heal what had been done here?
* * *
“You getting anything?” Hunt asked Tharion as they stood on the bank of a deep, wide river rushing through the cave system. Bryce, standing a few feet away, let the males talk as she studied the river, the mists blocking its origin and terminus; the carved walls continuing on the other side of the river; the musty, wet scent of this place.
Nothing so far that would tell her anything new about the blades, mist, or how to kick some Asteri ass, but she filed away everything she saw.
“No,” the mer said. Bryce was half listening to him. “My magic just senses that it’s … cold. And flows all through these caves.”
“I guess that’s good,” Baxian said, tucking in his wings. He winked at Bryce, drawing her attention. “No Wyrms swimming about.”
Bryce glowered. “You wouldn’t be joking if you’d seen one.” She didn’t give the Helhound time to reply before she said to him and Hunt, “Wings up to carry us?”
Her mind was racing too much for conversation as they awkwardly crossed the river, Hunt flying Sathia and Bryce together, Baxian carrying Tharion. Bryce extended her bubble of starlight so they could all remain within it, which was about as much extra activity as she could be bothered with while she took in the carvings.
They didn’t tell the story that Silene’s carvings had narrated—there was no mention of a slumbering evil beneath their feet. Just a river of starlight, into which the long-ago Fae had apparently dragged those pegasuses and drowned them.
Yeah, the Fae here had been no better than the ones in Nesta’s world.
They walked for hours and hours—miles and miles. There were occasional stops, alternating who took watch, but sleep was difficult.
The ghouls lurked in crevices and alcoves all around, scraps of malevolent shadow. They hissed with hunger for warm blood—and in abject fear of her starlight. Only someone with the Starborn gift—or someone under their protection—could survive here.
The Starsword pressed on her back; the dagger dug into her hip. They burdened each step, locked in some strange battle to be near each other that intensified as she got farther into the cave.
Bryce ignored them, and instead tracked the carvings on the walls. On the ceilings. Brutal images carved with care and precision: Merciless, unending battles and bloodshed. Cities in ruins. Lands crumbling away. All falling into that river of starlight, as if the Starborn power had swept it away in a tide of destruction.
“I have a question.” Sathia’s voice echoed through the tunnel. “It might be considered impertinent.”
Bryce snorted. “Didn’t you know? That’s the motto of Team Caves.”
Sathia increased her pace until she was at Bryce’s side. “Well, you don’t seem to want anything to do with the Fae.”
“Bingo,” Bryce said.
“Yet you’re here, bearing our two most sacred artifacts—”
“Three, if you count the Horn in my back.”
Sathia’s stunned silence seemed to bounce through the cave. “The … the Horn? How?”
“Fancy magic tattoo,” Bryce said, waving a hand. “But go on.”
Sathia’s throat worked. “You bear three of our most sacred artifacts. Yet you plan to … do what with the Fae?”