I couldn’t. Blowing up that banwyn made me feel sick. They were like water balloons filled with tar; I couldn’t bring myself to pop them. Even smacking them into the air like this felt… wrong. They were monsters, yes, vicious little beasts, cockroaches, but instead of eating cupcake crumbs under your sofa at night, they fed on panic and fear.
Their diet wasn’t their fault. And we were winning. There was no panic or fear to be had here. The scarred giant had commanded them to attack, but now, flung several streets back, his influence had dimmed.
Cress was wrong; they weren’t coming back. The swarm thinned. One darted away, down the street. Another followed, little feet pattering, followed by a third, a forth.
The scarred man bellowed a command. The swarm rallied, falling back together, coming straight for me, but fell apart quickly as I stepped forward and threw another half-dozen into the next street over. Several surrounding Eryk and Nate scuttled away, disappearing into the darkness.
Donovan, now with two swords in his hands, came at the scarred giant, dancing forward, muscles bulging, blades flashing. The giant blocked a hammering blow with his armored wrist, then used his gauntlet to catch the next strike.
He pulled Donovan close. “This isn’t over,” he snarled in his face. “You will never stop the rightful king.” He shoved Donovan back and turned in a circle. A huge black shadow morphed around him, swallowing him completely, spinning around and around like a black tornado.
Then, it disappeared.
The street fell quiet. The assassin was gone.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Fatigue hit me like a train. My legs shook. I willed them to keep me upright, while the edges of my vision grew foggy.
A beautiful low, sexy voice drifted over to me. “Chosen?”
Hmm. A dream. Ooh, not a dream. I blinked, and Donovan’s face came into focus. He had a small cut in his eyebrow and a scratch near his collarbone. It only made him look more blisteringly handsome, more dangerous.
The exhaustion surged through me again, and I wobbled on my bare feet. Strong, warm hands steadied me.
“I’m okay,” I mumbled. “Who was that guy, anyway?”
Fuck it. My dress was already ruined. Cecil would kill me for getting banwyn sludge on it, so it wouldn't matter if I scratched the fabric up by sitting on the ground. I slumped into a squat, then eased myself back to sit on the curb, and shivered. It was warmer now that the scarred giant had disappeared, but it was still midnight in September, and I was only wearing a silk gown.
“Agarthon nyr o Xayddovan.” Donovan sat next to me, letting out a low grunt of pain. “He was one of my oldtutors. I never liked him much, even though I didn’t understand why for the longest time.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t like him much either.”
Donovan let out an odd huff. A laugh? Maybe. “He always favored my brother, who was more ruthless, more merciless. I was fine with that. We are different people. For me, it wasn’t about winning at all costs.”
I nodded slowly. “Sometimes, it costs you much more than it’s worth to win a little fight.”
“Exactly. That’s why Agarthon is so scarred. He will not stop fighting, even when he’s disfigured. The smart thing to do when you’re badly injured in sparring would be to call a halt and treat your wounds. Agarthon never stopped. In time, I came to realize that for him, there was nothing outside the battle. For Agarthon, everything was black and white. You and your opponent. A winner and a loser. Nobody was equal, and only strength mattered.” He looked down at his hands. “I think duty and honor matter more.”
I gave him a wry smile. “That’s a nice speech. But I can read between the lines. Even though your brother was more ruthless, I’m sure you beat him during sparring anyway.”
The corner of his lip curled up, very slightly. “Most of the time, yes.”
I promised myself I would replay the fight between him and Agarthon in my head before I went to sleep. Now that I knew he was fine, I could appreciate it more. He was glorious, a war song come to life—an avenging angel with a sword in each hand, emerald eyes flashing, dark hair whirling. It was probably the sexiest thing I’d ever seen in my life.
Suddenly, Cress stood in front of us. Even with her sleeve torn off her battle leathers and little bite marks all over her skin, she looked extraordinarily beautiful. Herraven-black hair danced in the breeze. “Donovan. We need to move. The banwyn will be regrouping somewhere. Agarthon might call in the other two as reinforcements.” A flicker of fear drifted in her eyes. “If that happens, we will not beat them back so easily, especially with the Chosen depleted like she is now.” Did I imagine her sneering down at me? No. God, it would be so much easier to hate Cress if she was more of a bitch. “We need to hunt down the rest of the banwyn in this area now,” she said firmly.
A wave of empathy stirred me. “You can’t. They can’t help what they are, Cress. It’s like getting mad at a t-rex for being a carnivore.”
She stared down at me. “If we do not cull them now, the banwyn will find desperate, panicked humans to feed on. Vagrants, prostitutes, runaways.”
Pre-med students. Army veterans. Literally everyone was desperate and panicked these days. A general state of constant anxiety had seeped into our collective consciousness and made itself right at home.
“Go on. Kill the little fuckers, then,” I muttered.
Donovan nodded. He seemed as tired as I was. “You’re right, Cress. If we put a dent in their army, they will be more reluctant to come for her. We must go.”
