“How long has it been since the last Crimson Court?”
Finnyr blinked at the sudden shift in conversation, but recovered quickly. “Perhaps four years? No more than six…”
“I think it is time I summon my nobility together.” Yveun grinned with malicious glee, a new plan unfolding before him. There was one way Petra could not keep Finnyr out, or him, or half the noble Dragons upon Nova. “Contact your sister. Be thrilled that you will be the first to tell her that I am holding a Crimson Court.”
“When should I tell her this will take place?”
“A fortnight.” Yveun wanted to waste no time. He started for the door to return to the Hall of Whispers; there were preparations to be made. “But you did not ask the most important question, Finnyr. It is not when it will take place. It iswhere.”
Finnyr was slow on the uptake, but his eyes widened as he suddenly understood the source of the King’s mirth.
“Tell her that she has the delight of hosting the Crimson Court on the Isle of Ruana. And I expect every man, woman, and child under House Xin’s care to be in attendance, regardless if they are usual Court members or not.”
He would root out the truth himself. He would see the blood of every member of House Xin stain the ground if that was what it took. He was Yveun Rok’Oji Dono, and he did not operate in half measures.
16.Florence
The endwig crawled over the precipice. They nearly floated down around the face of the waterfall like wraiths in the darkness. Florence’s eyes were locked on them, their glowing white orbs staring back at her.
They would consume her soul, and her sanity, before they started on her flesh.
The monsters continued their approach, humming in their dark and mind-numbing way. Florence’s fingers rested on the hilt of her revolver, though the world around her seemed to be moving under water. The weapon was a steely reminder of the truth: she was about to die. Her brain would be sucked out through her nose and the endwig would fill her mind with its black poison. It would control her. It would use her as a lifeless puppet to draw them back to her friends. To get close enough that their whispering siren song could fatten their stomachs further.
Florence gripped the gun. The noise grew to a crescendo as the creatures fought against her will. They uttered their dirge of self-preservation while Florence’s hand shook, struggling to draw the weapon from its holster. The weapon fell to her side like a block of lead, her arm useless.
Sweat dotted her brow despite the chill air. Florence tilted her wrist. The creatures stalked through the water, but all she heard was the incessant humming. She would grin if she could, but it took every ounce of concentration she possessed to squeeze the trigger.
The gunshot was like lightning between her eyelids. Its crack broke the deadly repetition of the endwig, and the searing pain that followed it scared away the thick shadows that had been clouding the edges of her vision. Florence saw the monsters with horrific clarity, her senses her own once more. Twice the size of a Fenthri, hunched over and pale as electric light, they growled at her through dagger-like teeth.
With a roar, the first endwig charged forward. Florence moved to run but skidded to a stop along the river rocks. Her hands moved for her belt, knowing one canister from the next on pure memory. She plucked an explosive round and had it in the revolver in one fluid movement.
By the time the muzzle of her gun was aimed at the endwig still scaling the waterfall, the alchemical runes along the barrel were alight in the darkness. Florence didn’t hesitate, taking her shot. Derek said all she had been good for was exploding the forest around the Alchemists’ guild; if she survived this, she would make sure he appreciated the irony of the situation as the rocky bluff collapsed, taking the endwig with it.
Florence didn’t waste time. Two endwig had already alighted on the ground when she took her shot. They were on her tail and she sincerely doubted that a five-peca fall would kill the rest.
Inky blood dotted the ground behind her as she ran. It diminished with every step, her magic healing the gunshot wound she’d used to break free of the endwig’s song. Florence sprinted along the bank, hearing the scraping of stone and the bestial snarl of the creatures behind her. They were gaining, and fast.
She cut into the trees.
“Derek!” Florence screamed into the darkness. His Dragon ears should pick her up clear back to the train. “Derek!”
“Flor?” A familiar male voice echoed back to her.
Relief flooded her chest. He was safe, which was more than could be said for her at the moment.
The swipe of a long, clawed hand whizzed over her head. It sunk into the bark of the tree, narrowly missing its mark. Florence rolled along the forest floor, seeking purchase on the dead brush and leaves.
The second endwig materialized out of nowhere. Its long fingers wrapping around her shoulder, drawing both blood and a scream. Florence dropped two canisters into her weapon and pressed the muzzle of the gun into its neck as it leaned forward to bite off her face in one crunch of its gaping jowls.
Blood exploded the moment she pulled the trigger. Florence didn’t know much about the endwig, but she had learned all she needed to from the Revolver at the Alchemists’ Guild Hall. She knew the one thing she would care about: how to kill the bastards.
The endwig were tough creatures with bones of near literal steel. Their rib cages protected their hearts by forming an impenetrable barrier not unlike a Dragon’s. But at the base of the neck was a soft spot. With the gun angled just the right way, one could fire in through the top of the ribs.
Florence didn’t expect she would have the opportunity to make a clean shot that exploited their seemingly one weakness very often.
As she pushed off the creature’s corpse with a grunt, the other endwig was on her like a dog lunging for a discarded bone. Florence didn’t have a chance to even take aim. The canister singed her flesh as it exploded against the endwig’s face in close proximity, stunning it.
Scrambling to her feet, Florence began sprinting once more. Her shoulder oozed lifeblood onto her shirt and vest, her face streaked with flesh-curling burns from the proximity explosion. But the magic that Cvareh had given her by virtue of his blood held true. It healed her wounds and poured energy into her fatiguing muscles. It met the demands she placed on her body and then some.
