Hair drifting on a phantom breeze, Nesta glowed with silver fire. Still wearing her mask. A finger pointed toward the fight. Commanding that creature of bone and death to attack the Wyrm. Again. Again.
“What is she—” Bryce began, but Azriel clamped a hand over her mouth, hauling her farther down the tunnel.
So Bryce could only watch in awe and utter terror as Nesta’s fingers closed into a fist.
The beast’s jaws encircled the Wyrm’s entire front end and smashed it down into the earth, pinning it. The ground rocked with the impact, and even Azriel stumbled, his hand flying from Bryce’s mouth.
The Wyrm thrashed, but the undead creature held it firm. Held it down as Nesta drew Ataraxia once more and approached.
“We need to help her,” Bryce panted to Azriel.
“I promise you, she’s fine,” Azriel countered, urging them further into the tunnel. Out of the impact zone, Bryce realized.
The Wyrm must have sensed the sword’s approach, because it bucked against the bones and claws pinning it to the rock.
It managed to nudge the undead creature back, but only for a heartbeat.
Nesta raised her free hand again, and the undead creature slammed the Wyrm back into the ground. The Wyrm thrashed, desperate now.
With a dancer’s grace, Nesta scaled the undead beast’s tail, running along the knobs of its spine like rocks in a stream. Getting to higher ground, to a better angle.
The Wyrm shrieked, but Nesta had reached the undead beast’s white skull. And then she was jumping, sword arcing above her, then down, down—
Straight into the head of the Wyrm.
A shudder of silver fire rushed down the Wyrm. That cold, dry wind shivered through the caves again, death in its wake.
The Wyrm slumped to the ground.
The silence was worse than the sound.
Azriel was instantly gone, wings tucking in tight as he rushed toward Nesta and the undead beast that still held the Wyrm in its grip.
“Take it off,” Azriel ordered her.
The female turned her head toward him with a smooth motion that Bryce had only seen from possessed dolls in horror movies.
“Take it off,” Azriel snarled.
Still staring at him, Nesta yanked Ataraxia from the Wyrm’s body and slid down its side, landing with that preternatural ease on the rock.
Every muscle in Bryce’s body went taught, that voice whispering over and over to her, Mortal. You shall die. You shall die. You shall die.
She hated how she shook at Nesta’s stalking approach. How both the human and Vanir parts of her trembled at this thing, whatever it was, contained within the mask.
Azriel didn’t yield a single step. Nesta came to a stop before him. Nothing human or Fae looked out through the eyeholes of the mask.
“Take it off,” he said, voice pure ice. “Let the creature rest again.”
A blink, and the undead creature collapsed once more into a pile of bones.
“Cassian’s waiting for you, Nesta,” Azriel said—tone gentling. “Take off the Mask.” Nesta stayed silent, Ataraxia ready in her hand. One swipe, and Azriel would be dead. “He’s waiting for you at the House of Wind,” Azriel went on. “At home.”
Another blink from Nesta. The silver fire banked a little.
Like whoever Cassian was, and whatever the House of Wind was … they might be the only things capable of fighting the siren song of the Mask.
“Gwyn and Emerie are waiting,” Azriel pushed. “And Feyre and Elain.” The silver flame flared at that. Then Azriel said, “Nyx is waiting, too.”
The silver flame went out entirely.
The Mask fell from Nesta’s face, clattering on the stone.
Nesta swayed, but Azriel was there, catching her, bringing her to his chest, scarred hands stroking her hair. “Thank the Mother,” he breathed. “Thank the Mother.”
Bryce began to turn away, sensing that she was witnessing something deeply personal.
But Nesta pulled back from Azriel. Steadied her feet before facing Bryce, Ataraxia still in one hand. She flicked the fingers of her other hand and the Mask instantly vanished, off to wherever she’d summoned it from.
Bryce had so many words in her head that none of them came out.
Nesta just sheathed Ataraxia down her spine again and said to Bryce, “Keep walking.”
15
It took Bryce hours to stop shaking. To chase that cold, deadly wind from her skin. To stop hearing the whispering of her death, the death of all things.
She’d never encountered anything like that mask. Nesta had seemed at its mercy, brought back to herself only by Azriel’s list of whoever those people were—clearly people Nesta cared about.