Shouts rose up in a cacophony of confusion outside. A bell rang. Screams of terror and a booming voice calling for order had all four of them freezing and turning towards the sound. Thecurtains had been drawn, what with morning’s impending light, and meant that those outside were Rusan soldiers—often last to be trained and used as shields for the night-walking Caersans of the Society.
“Guards to me!” Nikolai called as he edged toward the covered balcony door closest to him, drawing his sword. Within moments, a thunder of footsteps echoed through the corridors, signalling the rapid approach of more soldiers who would bar their escape.
Ariadne sucked in a sharp breath. Howdarehe? She cast her sights around the room in a desperate search for something—anything—they could use to protect themselves from the sun. They needed to leave and run if they must.
A quilted blanket caught her eye, and Ariadne ran to it, her ribs screaming in protest from the movement. As though reading her mind, Revelie and Camilla followed suit, flinging open a chest in the corner to reveal more blankets, which they could drape over themselves like makeshift cloaks.
The balcony door burst open, letting in a massive shadow that bore down on Nikolai with red eyes and spiraling horns. Lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing sharp teeth and even longer, more lethal fangs. A huge blade swung down at the King’s Sword, who blocked the attack with vampiric speed at the same moment the summoned guards poured in through the hallway door.
Azriel took in the arriving adversaries, noted Camilla’s injuries and Revelie’s fear. Finally, his attention found Ariadne’s bruised face and torn wedding dress, and his face twisted with a deeper loathing than she had ever seen from him before.
Then, with a roar, all hell broke loose.
Chapter 10
There were few emotions Azriel had grown accustomed to more than rage. Sorrow pecked at him often, a constant reminder of his friend’s permanent absence and his wife’s betrayal—if he was so bold as to call it that. Overwhelming happiness and love warmed him when he was able to settle into the arms of the only woman he could ever again desire. Even the rare comfort of peace in those moments had grown to be something to which he could become accustomed.
Yet it was pure, unadulterated wrath that remained the one part of him that he not only couldn’t shake but didn’t want to leave behind. It fueled him, keeping him moving even when his world tilted dangerously on its axis.
And in that moment, he was thankful for it, for all Azriel felt as he took another step into the room where his wife stood, her face bearing a blackened bruise from a vile man and clutching a quilt as the only thing that could prevent her from contracting aegrisolis. Fiery loathing built in his veins with every breath hetook, sharpening his vision even as the dregs of Phulan’s potions made the room swim.
A thunderous roar rent through the air, and it wasn’t until Azriel had shoved Nikolai Jensen back with a mighty push of his blade that he realized that the sound came from him, not Razer. The armored soldier stumbled back, his eyes widening with shock at the strength that nearly caused his knees to buckle. Before either of them could rush to engage once more, guards spilled in from the halls and flooded the drawing room.
“Protect your King!” Nikolai cried, taking a step back to stand beside the supine Loren.
Familiar heat scorched Azriel’s back as he stalked forward, cutting through the guards who swarmed and encircled their King, each of them shouting and cursing at what they saw behind him. Why Loren was unmoving on the floor, he had no idea. Nor did he care. It would only make it easier to kill the bastard.
“Is that adragon?” someone called from amidst the din.
“Gods!” another cried, “Kill it!”
The sound of glass shattering told Azriel all he needed to know about what Razer did without looking back. The guards in the room and the soldiers below shouted in alarm, and then a midnight blue maw snapped through the broken balcony doors.
Pain that didn’t belong to him lanced through Azriel’s lower legs a moment later. Razer shrieked, his face disappearing as quickly as it’d come as he turned to tend to whatever was happening outside.
“Keep your distance,” Azriel advised, “until we’re ready to go.”
Razer huffed. “Happily.”
The dragon had taken on enough injuries during their fight against Sehrox and Ehrun. He had yet to fully recover from them, his usually armored belly missing scales where the largerdragon’s claws had raked through them. Such gaps in his natural defenses were dangerous when the soldiers were prepared with weapons that were sure to terrorize beasts of his size.
In unison with the familiar swooping sensation in Azriel’s stomach that told him Razer was flying away, a searing pain struck in his shoulder. At first, he assumed someone had hit the dragon as he took flight. Then warmth gushed down his side, and his grip wavered on his sword, nearly causing him to drop it. Glancing down, he found a large bolt sticking out of both ends of his dominant shoulder.
Using his wound as a distraction, the nearest soldier lunged, blade aimed for his chest. Azriel shifted and grunted as the point of the sword dug into his other arm deep enough to nick bone. No armor meant no real way to keep himself protected—Kall would be chiding him for his lack of preparation.
Kallshouldbe chiding him…
With one hand, Azriel hefted his sword up to keep fighting. With the other, he found the fletched end of the bolt and snapped it off. He couldn’t reach the other half and therefore left it in place. A risk. If someone yanked it free, the amount of blood he’d lose could be detrimental.
Still, he moved. The room swayed beneath his feet, though the soldiers he fought didn’t seem to notice the way the floor moved like waves. As such, Azriel put too much focus on each of his unsteady steps, pulling his attention away from the fight at hand. He blinked hard in a desperate attempt to clear his mind to no avail. Faces blurred. Opponents doubled. Swords struck from every which angle.
Then out of nowhere, Azriel found himself on his back. Pain ricocheted through his shoulder as the bolt was forced backwards into the wound already there, and a surge of panic had him grabbing a sword by the blade to keep it from piercing his neck.
“On your feet, my King,” said a deep voice in the dhemon language before several cries rang out around the room.
On either side of him, dhemons stepped into view, hacking their way through the soldiers. They moved with near-synchronization and practiced grace. Step. Slash. Step. Parry. Step. Stab. In their wake, Azriel could breathe. With the vampire soldiers pushed back, he shoved himself up, head still spinning.
“Up,Vhaltrin,” said the voice again, now a mixture of common and dhemonic, as an arm hooked under his less-injured arm and pulled him to his feet.
