“Youdare!” a voice bellowed.
The sword was in my hand, glowing with neon green fire. I heard the click of a gun clearing its holster, a whispered wish that brushed the scent of rosemary and yeast through the air, and a quiet, “Huh,” from Myra.
Myra, next to me, had not drawn the axe.
That should have meant something. That detail was important.
“We don’t dare,” Myra said. “We’re here to take back what is ours.”
I frowned. She’d caught onto something before me.
Then I realized who the voice belonged to.
“Goap,” I said. Myra nodded to the tunnel behind Bathin, ahead of us. “Show yourself. No,” I said, changing my mind. “Get out of our way.”
“Brother,” Bathin said, “help or get out of the way.”
Goap solidified out of thin air behind Bathin, a wickedly serrated short sword in one hand, a flashing dagger in the other.
The muscles in Bathin’s arms bunched, but the stone that held him did not budge.
“Hello, brother,” Goap sneered, then he stabbed Bathin in the back.
Chapter Seventeen
I ducked and rushed,moving under Bathin’s outstretched arm, pivoting to face Goap, the sword pressed in his belly.
He was Bathin’s opposite. They were both dark-haired, but otherwise, he was thin to the point of being emaciated, his eyes much more alien, lesshumanthan Bathin’s.
He wore a tunic and trousers such a dark plum they were almost black. His long hair flowed free but did nothing to hide the hard angles of his pale face.
In each hand, he held a blade, but only the dagger had blood on it.
“Drop,” I demanded, “the weapons.”
Goap raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”
“You stabbed him.”
“Of course I stabbed him.”
“Of course he stabbed me,” Bathin said, shaking free of the stone bindings as if they had never been solid enough to secure him.
“Delaney,” Rossi said. “You can lower the sword.”
“Sheathe it,” Goap corrected. “Before we’re all seen.”
“He’s right,” Bathin said. “Sheathe it.”
I shifted my weight and reluctantly—very reluctantly—drew the blade away from Goap’s stomach and sheathed the sword.
“Someone better explain this to me,” I said, “or I’m going to stab him just because I’m in a bad damn mood.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Xtelle said, coming up behind me. “Goap.” She lowered her head, and skewered his shoulder. His blood was just as red on her horn as Bathin’s was on his blade.
“Mother,” Goap gritted out. He poked at the leg she delicately extended, barely leaving a scratch.
“My Prince.” Avnas drew a horn across Goap’s forearm, a very light scratch.
