I turn to him and nod, slow and vicious. “They are. And there’s one in particular I recall in blistering detail.” I point a long finger at Woudix. “I remember how he can open any door and have it lead to the underrealm. Woudix, I advise you to open it now.”
Then I raise my arms, head tipped back.
The earth trembles.
A deep groan splits the mosaic tiles of Raven Hall as the floor beneath the gods fractures. Cracks spread outward, glowing blue from beneath. Brimfire magma boils up from the chasms, burning a sapphire glow.
I call to it.
Guide it.
Shape it with the fluid movements of my fingers.
With a sweep of my arms, I forge the lava-like brimfire into columns—massive coils around the six gods in the shape of a cage.
Before the cage seals, Woudix shoots to his feet in an attempt to flee, but the brimfire strikes him, driving him back.
Vale lifts a hand, blasting his fey against the brimfire—but volcanic stone absorbs energy.
Artain draws another arrow, but the brimfire columns are too tight for him to pull back his arrow.
They’re trapped.
The cage closes, its bars cooling into shimmering blue-black obsidian, but still hot enough to sizzle against immortal flesh.
Woudix grips the bars, silver blood hissing as it drips from his palms. “You think you can cage gods?”
“No,” I say softly. “Not forever. But Icandelay you.”
“I’ll call my resurrected bodies to come break the bars.”
I pause, meeting each of their eyes in turn, before continuing. “It will take time for your dead puppets to free you. Hours, maybe. And we all know there’s a simpler way out.”
I step back, gaze sweeping over their trapped forms. With deliberate movements, I pick up the broken vestibule door, forgotten on the wrecked foyer floor, and drag it over. I shove it between the bars.
Iyre and Thracia have to scramble out if it’s way as it clatters to the floor.
I point to the door on the floor.
“Banish yourselves to the underrealm,” I say. “Or burn.”
I grab Tòrr’s horn from my leather belt and thrust it high, into the beam of sunlight from the broken ceiling.
Solarium—maybe the only thing that I’ve seen the fae afraid of. While it might not deal them a deathblow, it will wound them. Maybe even in ways they can never recover from.
And Iknowthem.
They’d rather surrender with their pretty faces intact than risk a permanent scar.
Artain scowls but crouches down, reaching for the doorknob. “Woudix, brother. Open the fucking door. We can continue thisdiscussionwith our sister at a later date.”
I smile at Artain in mock sweetness. “You always were the most vain.”
“Woudix!” Artain prompts.
The God of Death’s lip curls back over his incisors, refusing to budge.
“Do it,” Vale hisses, low and impatient. “We’ll play my daughter’s little game, for now.”
