Niko’s arms tightened around his stomach as if he was going to be sick.
I grimaced, bending my knee and trying to loosen the tape around my ankles. The dark-haired men were also Asian, but not the same ethnicity. Sometimes older immortals had different physical features than modern people—carrying genetic traits that had phased out or changed through new generations. But in this case, I was certain they weren’t of the same origin. The leader appeared Samoan with a broad nose, dark hair and eyes, and skin like bronze. He had ink on his biceps that looked like sleeves of armor disappearing beneath his blue shirt.
“Let the woman go, Cyrus,” Niko repeated.
Cyrus advanced and flipped Niko’s hood back. “Still the same weak man I remember. I’ve spent five centuries searching for a blind Mage. I finally gave up in Europe and came here. You were always so much trouble.” He briefly glanced over his shoulder at me. “So, did this white woman take pity on you and make you her servant? You fool. You can’t even see the people you don’t belong with.”
Niko’s crystalline eyes rose, and when I saw a flicker of light within them, I fought harder against the men restraining me. The man on my left was the weaker of the two, so I buried my nails into his arm until he almost lost his grip. He wrenched my arm, nearly pulling it out of its socket.
“I am not the weak boy you remember,” Niko said, his voice cold and defiant.
Cyrus laughed haughtily.
That laugh galvanized Niko into action. He withdrew his hands from inside his open jacket, brandishing two katanas, one in each hand.
My eyes widened as he expertly sliced the air around him, forcing the men to retreat.
Cyrus stared him down, unflinching. “Let us see what theboyhas learned.” He stepped back and nodded at the two men, who reached behind their backs for their own swords.
Energy flooded my veins, and without being able to use it, I was forced to keep it tempered so that it wouldn’t consume me.
The swords weren’t long, which was how Niko had managed to keep them concealed underneath his long jacket.
Niko extended his left arm and glanced over his right shoulder, his gaze skating about as the men advanced. Steel clashed together, clanging as they exploded into action with expert moves I’d never seen before. These men didn’t fight with savagery but with precision.
Cyrus’s men attacked from different directions, and Niko spun around, blocking each strike and dodging their swings with impossible speed before countering with his own attack.
One man swiped his sword in a lateral move, and Niko bent backward, his long hair cascading behind him. Before righting himself, he swept his arm along the ground in an arc and sliced the legs of the man behind him.
A guttural scream poured from his opponent, blood streaking across the air and splattering on the wet asphalt.
When Niko was upright again, he lunged at the uninjured man with a vengeance, wielding both swords in a whirling blur and driving the man back, who could barely keep up his defenses. This wasn’t a typical skirmish between men; these were warriors.
The man with the injured legs looked up, cursing the clouds for shielding the sun and preventing him from healing. He staggered forward, holding his sword like a baseball bat, ready to swing at Niko from behind.
I screamed through the tape, trying to warn Niko.
My heart clenched as the man raised his sword over his right shoulder, his eyes wide. He was aiming for Niko’s neck, and beheading was certain death for a Mage.
Cyrus’s men could barely restrain my arms as I writhed in an attempt to break free. My eyes widened with horror as a glint of light on the blade caught my eye.
Niko was too distracted—unaware of what was unfolding behind him as he struck his opponent, slicing his arm, his side, and leaving a gash across his face. It looked as if he took pleasure in delaying the kill, and the man weakened—finally taking a step back and conceding defeat.
The Mage standing behind him swung, and all that I saw was a flash of silver.
Niko dropped to his knees, reversed his sword, and drove it into the man’s stomach. He quickly withdrew his blade and backed away from them—his hair askew, his lips peeled back.
“What’s going on down there?” someone shouted.
In the distance, a woman leaned out of her apartment window, searching through the layers of fog that moved like smoke.
“Someone’s going to call the Mageri,” one of the men hissed at Cyrus.
Niko raised his bloody sword, aiming it at Cyrus. “Tell your men to release her.”
Cyrus stepped forward and narrowed his eyes to slivers. “We’ll finish this another day, Nikodemos. It’s been a long time, and we have catching up to do. I’d like to know who taught a blind fool to handle a sword.” He stalked toward the injured man and grabbed the cuff of his jacket, yanking him up. Their hands discreetly touched as healing light moved between them. “I’ve waited five hundred years, and I’ve learned how to be a patient man. We’ll see each other again, because you know what I’ve come for.”
The men flashed out of sight, leaving behind nothing but bloodstains and a roll of tape. Niko used the end of his coat to wipe his blades clean before returning them to their scabbards.
