The fae age faster than dragon shifters or vampires, but their ability to siphon years from others puts their lifespan on par with the other long-lived peoples of Ellonrift.
“There! On the road with two wagons.” Bale is the first to see the vampires moving along the cart road. I squint in the same direction but don’t see them at all. Fyrestar angles down with the others. Once we’re lower, I finally spot the raiders, cursing my probably vampire eyes for not seeing as well.
The entire group is dressed in hooded, granite-colored cloaks. They’re well hidden, especially in the near dark. I count fifteen in all.
“They’re hard to see,” Kellan remarks, maybe as an excuse for not spotting them first. We were talking when we should have been looking. We used to bring out the best in each other. Now we seem to bring out the worst.
I don’t respond, focused on the blood traffickers. Even the two wagons and the horses pulling them are the color of stone. Everything is gray on gray. They move at night and sink straight into the base of the craggy mountains during the day. If a routine patrol of dragon shifters near the border with Ruthinock hadn’t spotted them before they hit the granite and shale lining the base of the mountain range, the vampires could easily have taken this batch of humans all the way to Bloodwold.
We descend. There’ll be no surprise attack. We’re several huge, winged blotches, unmissable, even against the darkening sky.
I glance at Kellan again. “Are you sure you’re up for a fight?” I’m worried he’s not in any shape to engage.
“Not with you.” He drifts away from me. “I’m tired of that.”
I press my mouth flat, my throat growing hot as I watch him lengthen the distance between us. He falls behind me, honoring the formation the race to the pillars dictated this morning. Turning back around, I stay my course with Fyrestar. If Kellan and I don’t have fighting, I guess we don’t have anything anymore.
Or maybe we can finally be friends.
“They’re sticking with the wagons,” Bale growls. “We need to drive them away from the humans.”
“Do we try to take prisoners?” Maia asks.
“Kill,” Bale says darkly. “Danica, Wade—get the humans to safety before anything else. The rest of you—no quarter!”
We dive, wind whistling, wings burning, and battle lust rising in my veins. Even if we can’t do anything about the blood slaves already in Bloodwold—or the farming of people there like livestock to feed the population’s lust for crimson gold—here, Bale is king and can stick each of these vampires on a pike and watch them burn with the morning sun if he wants to.
Personally, I don’t have the patience for that. Heads are about to roll.
“Fyrestar.” He cocks an ear toward me. “Do you remember the battle at Sinjar Hill?”
“That was werebeasts. A lot of bears.”
“But do you remember that move we pulled?” He trills a yes. “Don’t get too low. You have to stay out of striking distance.” The first volley of arrows arcs toward us. Fyrestar pivots expertly, avoiding the bolts. Hatred burns through me. Like all blood traffickers for nearly two hundred years, they’re going to force dragon shifters out of the sky and into skin.
“Swords out?” Fyrestar snarls.
“They are now.” The ring of my blades harmonizes with the whistle of the wind, a melody that belongs in nightmares. Tonight, they won’t be my nightmares.
Fyrestar banks left and right, avoiding the near-constant barrage. A spear hurtles past us. Fyrestar must sense my need to start—and end—this fight, because he flies so fast we outpace the others. I tighten my grip on my blades as we head straight for the back of the caravan. The wagons are in front with only their drivers. Vampires take up the rear.
“Hey, bloodsuckers!” I want my revenge for the holes in my flesh and the blood I lost. For my nightmares. Did I really resist flying out this morning? Now I want their deaths all over me. I’m going to slice them to ribbons and swim in their stolen blood.
Grinning like a knife-opened throat, I reach for all my hard-packed emotions from this morning, setting them loose in their altered form. Fury, not fear. Resolve instead of reluctance. They detonate inside me with a roar only I can hear. Strength rushes through me. My senses come alive. My focus sharpens. I can make out every fang glinting in the low light. I can see the whites of their flaring eyes as I arrive like a shooting star on my blazing warbird.
“Now!” I shout, clamping my legs so hard around Fyrestar’s body that I won’t move as he rolls. Blood rushes to my head as he flies upside down above two vampires, and my outstretched blades cut through their unsuspecting necks like warm butter. We kill the two just behind them in the same way before Fyrestar rolls back over, pumping his wings hard to regain the elevation we lost. Leaning over, I swing low and decapitate another as we wheel around.
The rest of the team arrives on our heels and shifts as they crash down and plunge into the battle. Wade and Danica head straight for the wagon drivers. Bale and Arran attack from the side while Maia and Kellan slice into the back of the group where I entered and carved my way toward the middle.
I vault off Fyrestar, slamming feet first into the face of a vampire. The blood trafficker keels over, my boots crushing his head. I spring off him, and Fyrestar pounds his beak down on the vampire’s neck and tears out his throat. We fight side by side. Every head I sever feeds my fury and starves the fear that’s been living like a parasite in my stomach ever since Draywood.
I move faster than ever before, avoiding hits, sliding away from swords, and dodging arrows. I move so fast that I barely see myself, my ability to recognize friend from foe in this accelerated state stretching far beyond my usual limits. Skin opens, blood sprays, and bones crack under my blades. Fyrestar guards my back, allowing me to plow ruthlessly forward. I revel in my victory—over these vampires, over my fear, over that thunderclap of strength and speed that ignited the moment I asked for it.
I kill without mercy until suddenly, there’s silence.
Breathing hard, I look around. All the vampires lay dead on the ground.
The Elite Wing stares at me, Bale’s amber gaze heaviest of all. Half escaping its pins, my hair drips crimson beads, the blood-soaked mass heavy on my shoulders. My chest heaves as I gulp down air that tastes of clashing blades, fresh kills, pine boughs, and shale-tumbled mountains. The first stars appear and shine down on me. My warbird glows beside me, his inner heat drying villainous entrails right onto his feathers. We’re both covered in blood, and some savage part of me wants to lick my arm and taste the death of my enemies.
