Abrupt, stumbling movement in my periphery interrupted the flow of the ritual.
My eyes snapped wider in time to see Luther wrenching himself from his rigid stupor. In a clean motion, he rolled onto his back and swung his legs out. He kicked at Timothy’s talons, sweeping him off balance.
The stolas stumbled, and Luther followed its momentum. He leapt to his feet, appearing wild-eyed and frantic. Cold and collected, he jammed an elbow backward and sent another stolas completely off kilter.
Somehow the rope on his wrists had slithered free. Though it shouldn’t have surprised me he managed to get loose. Before I could question it, he charged his fists, punching them as if shaking out the tension, before bringing them up, knuckles white and eyes blazing with profound resolve.
An ounce of the dread choking me lifted, and I gasped in a lungful of air.
The cavern erupted into a volatile throng of chaos. Jeniffer shrieked in agitation. The stolas gripping me snarled, itching to fight, but tightened its hold. Stolas fractured from their ritual circle and spilled forth to defend their monstrous rite. A barrage of feathers and talons assembling to kill a threat.
The stolas mobilized, rushing on the offensive against Luther. All while above the fire, a massive shape converged. Smears of smoke at first, then blurred limbs, shifting feathers, an open, baying and howling beak.
The heat worsened, intensifying into a smoky pressure that seared my skin.
My heart thundered in my ears, and sweat dripped down my face.
Luther moved like a man possessed with animal rage, provoking images of a dark knight coming to the rescue.
I watched with stunned fascination.
Timothy swiveled to retaliate the initial strike. Luther lunged, preparing to battle with nothing more than his fists and sheer determination. They tussled, moving in a blur my fuzzy mind failed to untangle.
The stolas had jerky, arching movements full of aggression and instinct. Luther reciprocated with punishing, sharp strikes. They were nearly evenly matched as Timothy had Luther’s weapon, plus his inherited monstrous features. If Luther wasn’t so sure-footed and swift, he wouldn’t be able to keep up.
I was hardly aware of anything anymore. Part of me wanted to melt and cry and dissolve into a pitiful mess. The other part, a new voice ringing in my ears, demanded that I shake off the fear and wrap myself in courage. That second, quitter voice grew louder, and it almost sounded like my grandfather.
But I had to be going insane.
The smoke. The heat. The fear. It was sweltering. It was suffocating. It was too much for me to bear.
The shimmer of the blade caught my attention. I almost choked on a sharp inhale until Luther deftly knocked the dagger from Timothy’s talons.
My breath caught, and time slowed to a grueling crawl. The weapon spiraled through the air for an eternity. Spinning on and on and on.
All the stolas scrambled into action.
The blade hit the ground with a loud clang before skittering across stone. It clattered to a jarring halt at the lip of the fire pit. Near enough to the unspeakable horror of the massive eldritch figure convulsing in the flames that the ember of hope in my chest withered.
Blood-thirsty apostles rushed in. One shoved Luther toward the fire pit, and dread punched through my chest. He barely regained his footing, twisting around and dodging a talon-tipped wing. Breath ragged and eyes burning, his determination struck me like a physical force. More than a man, he was a beast unleashed.
Possessive, overprotective, and maddening. More than a little insane. But he was mine, and I was his—and I needed him to kick some feathered ass or we would both perish.
Blood continued streaming down my arm. The droplets formed little puddles on the ground that wiggled and squirmed like crimson worms. A nauseating image, watching my own blood form pools and snake toward the amassing horror in theblaze. The god in the fire was siphoning my essence to him, needing it more than air if he was going to be reborn.
Moloch’s outline solidified around the edges, and the smell of sulfur intensified to a sickening degree. Dark spots danced across my vision, and pressure swelled in my head. Each droplet of my blood fueled the madness.
Sensing the forging power in the fire pit, Timothy laughed, a sound of eerie delight. “Do you see? There is no stopping the ritual. He is coming. Our master will return.” He gestured a long wing toward the swirling, whirling turmoil of the firestorm and the grotesquerie condensing within.
Jeniffer advanced, wings rustling and sharp talons clicking with each step. “Ophelia Ashcroft, descendant of the traitor,” she hissed. “You will reforge the bond that was broken. Your death will be His rebirth.”
In the disarray, Luther looked at me. Frustration crinkled his brow, and exhaustion darkened his expression. He was valiant and wonderful and handsome, but he was slowing down.
Icy fingers of alarm spider-walked down my spine.
“Ophelia!” he cried out, and my heart skipped a beat. But I couldn’t answer, barely stifling a whisper of fear. The smoke was filling my lungs and clogging my throat.
Then the mayhem compressed into a singular moment, sucking all the breathable air from the cavern. Time slammed to an abrupt halt, and my senses sharpened into crystal clarity. A heartbeat skipped and warped into an alternate, liminal reality where I saw… everything.
