“That one,” I say, pointing to a thread that looks duller than the rest, anchored to a jar filled with something that looks suspiciously like teeth. “It’s too quiet.”
“The anchor of silence,” Dastian murmurs, actually looking impressed. “Sneaky bastards.”
“Grab it,” Dreven orders, his shadows pooling around my wrists like protective gloves.
I reach down. The air gets heavy, static building until the hair on my arms stands up. My fingers brush the dull silver line, and a shock of cold fire zips straight up my arm. It tastes like copper and betrayal. It feels like every lie Cormac ever told me, distilled into a physical current.
The shock as it touches my fingers is nothing compared to the earthquake that smashes through the room, that has nothing to do with the syphon, and everything to do with the ex-slayers who call themselves The Order of Veil.
Chapter 18
Dastian
“Well, that was pretty much what I expected,” I remark as the two ex-slayers-slash-Order fuckers sweep through the room.
“And you didn’t think to mention it?” Nyssa shouts above the din as the room falls into pure chaos.
I breathe it in, relishing it. “Where’s the fun in spoilers?” I shout back, sending a pulse of raw disorder into the ceiling. It meets a falling chunk of masonry and turns it into a flock of very confused pigeons.
Cormac stands at the shattered entrance, glowing with a stolen silver light that makes my skin itch. It’s unnatural. Order forced into a shape it shouldn’t hold. Beside him, Finnian looks less like a kindly mentor and more like a vampire who’s just realised the blood bank is closed.
“Step away from the engine, Nyssa,” Finnian barks, raising a hand. The air around him solidifies into a transparent wall, rushing toward us to crush the resistance.
“Boring,” I mutter. I snap my fingers. The wall fractures, spiderwebbing with golden cracks before shattering intoharmless glitter. “You lot really need a new playbook. Wall of force? In this economy?”
Dreven is pure shadow, cutting off Cormac’s flank, while Voren calls forth an army of the undead.
Tabitha has vanished, of course.
I glance over at Nyssa, but she is still reaching into the pit. It doesn’t look like anything is happening. “Nyssa? You okay over there?”
She doesn’t reply.
I’m distracted momentarily by a bolt of magic from Cormac that lands at my feet, sending my temper flaring, hot and delightful. The room is a swirling mess of stolen power and ancient grudges, and the static charges the air until all our hair stands on end. Dreven is going to kill me for making him look like a fucking scarecrow.
I gather a ball of pure instability in my palm—red-gold and screaming to be let loose.
“Right then,” I grin at the horrified ex-slayers. “Let’s see how well your stolen magic holds up against a god who’s bored of following the rules.” I lob the sphere. It doesn’t arc like a well-behaved projectile; it zig-zags, defying physics just to be difficult, before slamming into Cormac’s hastily erected barrier.
The shield doesn’t shatter. That would be too pedestrian. Instead, the instability infects it. The stolen silver light curdles, turning neon green before imploding with a sound like a wet cough. Cormac stumbles back, his robes smoking, looking thoroughly offended that his stolen geometry didn’t hold up against raw entropy.
“You insolent—” he starts, but a ripple of chaos explodes next to his head, cutting him off.
“Less talking, more suffering from the youngsters in the room,” I advise.
Finnian ignores me. He clocks Nyssa on her knees, hand buried in the engine, and raises a glowing palm. A lance of pure, concentrated slayer energy forms there, aimed right between her shoulder blades.
Not on my watch.
I materialise directly in his line of fire. The energy hits my chest and scatters harmlessly, feeding the furnace inside me rather than hurting it.
“Bad form, Finny,” I tut, grabbing his wrist. His pulse hammers against my thumb. “Shooting a lady in the back? I thought the Order was all about chivalry and repression.”
I squeeze. Heat flares, turning the air around his arm into a mirage. He screams, a jagged sound that warms my heart, and drops to his knees.
“Nyssa!” I shout over my shoulder, holding the writhing ex-slayer in place. “Are you done? I’m running out of things to break!”
Voren’s wraiths swarm around us in a flurry of activity, making me frown.
