I hold very still, my spine straight and my shoulders back, not showing my loss of balance. “I just coated their minds with the armor of my magic. You cannot touch them ever again. No one can.” Not her. Not me.
My voice is normal again, evidence—at least to me—of power lost. I don’t let on. Mother sniffs out weakness like Cerberus sniffs out snakes.
At the same time, I can’t entirely regret what I just did. Right now, parceling out my magic to protect the survivors feels more worthwhile to me than black wings and a whip. Darkness and vengeance chafe against Elpis in my heart. I’m not sure there’s room for both.
Mother’s face flushes with anger—and maybe something else. Real worry. Her eyes dart from side to side, her hands clenching into fists.
The satisfaction of seeing Alpha Fisa scared is suddenly overcome by an intense throbbing in my shoulder. I forgot I’d been stabbed. Injury and magic fatigue start to plague me, but I’m not finished yet, and my reserves have never failed me.
I force the tremor from my hand and pull a knife from my belt. This fight isn’t over, and maybe it’s time to finally accept that Mother’s name is written on my blade in blood.
CHAPTER 22
I don’t hesitate. Unfortunately, neither does she. Just before I release the blade, Mother morphs into the shorter form of a Harpy, and the knife sails over her head. She shoves off with a beat of powerful wings and flies away, abandoning her remaining soldiers and contingent of Metal Mages without a backward glance.
Cursing under my breath, I watch her go, a mix of disgust and relief churning in my gut. I would have done it this time. But I didn’t. And I don’t know which sickens me more.
I don’t fly after her. Seeing to the welfare of the people right here in Sykouri holds more sway over me. Even though it galls me, dealing with Mother will have to wait.
No one resumes fighting. Everyone is too stunned. Or afraid. Or troubled. Or in awe. Mother’s soldiers lay down their weapons, not interested in pursuing a battle for a leader who literally just took off on them and is definitely not coming back. Or maybe it’s because of me. I’m bloody, winged, powerful. I wouldn’t want to fight me, either.
Behind us, I hear a shout to search for the wounded. It’s Lukos’s voice. At least someone is taking control like they should.
I whirl to face Griffin. “What iswrongwith me?”
Griffin frowns. “What are you talking about? You did it. You got everyone back.”
I glare at him. Yes, there’s some positive. But this was also a colossal failure. “Afterhalf of them died!”
“Not half.” He sweeps a hand out. “Look around you. There are more injuries here than deaths.”
I refuse to acknowledge the pride in his voice and flex my empty hands. The scourge is gone. I didn’t use it. I chose healing instead, and the Furies took their ancient weapon back.
“Stop looking at me like I did something right,” I snap. “Sometime, somewhere else, all this starts again. Godsdamnit!”
Griffin shakes his head. He looks terrible. There’s blood everywhere and a huge gash at his hairline. “No. She won’t underestimate you again.”
I scowl. “Great. So we’ll lose faster next time.”
Griffin looks like he’s gearing up to argue again, so I turn away from him, really just wanting to stomp off and lick my wounds. I won’t. There are more important things to do, like find my husband a healer.
I pull up short when I see the way Flynn and Kato are staring at me. Flynn is wide-eyed and has the strangest, bemused look on his beat-up face. As for Kato, all the strong, masculine lines of his features have softened, and he doesn’t once take his blue eyes off me.
Suddenly self-conscious, I fold down my wings, trying to get them back inside me. They stay where they are—huge, heavy, and solid black. I bite my lip, tasting shattered rock and the sour residue of failure on it. I don’t say anything, and neither do Flynn and Kato.
Carver and Bellanca limp closer, both of them barely intact. Carver’s burn-reddened arm is slung tightly around Bellanca’s blood-soaked waist, and I don’t know if her pinched expression is because she’s having to rely on Carver, or because she’s in pain. Probably both. They stop just short of me, Carver supporting most of Bellanca’s weight.
“You have wings!” Carver’s expression is both dazed and awed. “And what was that magic?”
Probably for the first time in her life, Bellanca keeps her mouth shut and just looks at me. I half expect her to shrug Carver off, but she doesn’t. It seems odd, considering they were just trying to kill each other—and clearly nearly succeeded. Turning homicidal against one’s will must draw people together. Tomorrow they’ll likely be bickering again. For now, survival trumps all.
“I don’t know,” I answer about the strange magic. “I think I put everyone but me into some sort of stasis.” I leave it at that, because that’s all I’ve got.
“It was like the whole world went dark,” Carver says.
Huh. For me, it went green. But there was darkness on the inside. Enough to color my wings black.
Conflicted, I think about the Furies’ blessing for bloody vengeance. I think about how I ignored it—ignored them. And now Mother’s gone.
