The soultaker lunged at Jono, who twisted out of reach before headbutting the demon in the side hard enough to send it flying through the air. Jono went after it, and Patrick went after whatever it had been guarding in the dome.
The threshold wrapped around the stone entrance tasted like hell in the back of Patrick’s throat. He swallowed against it, half listening to Jono’s fight happening behind him. He didn’t have time to undo whatever wards had been set on the rocky dome, so he went for the most direct approach.
Patrick switched up his grip on the dagger and stabbed at the low entrance with the blade. White fire flared around his hand, crackling through the air and fighting with the magic tangled across the way in. The wards flashed a violent red, and Patrick ripped the dagger downward, the heavenly magic in the blade breaking through mortal magic.
The wards broke apart in a cascading wave, the power erupting outward hot enough to burn. Patrick dove through the entrance, his dagger and a couple of mageglobes lighting the way. Heart pounding in his chest, Patrick didn’t know what he was going to find inside and was prepared for the worst.
Something crashed over him, muffling his magic in a way that made him swear. His mageglobe winked out of existence, the shock of its disappearance making his head throb. Being inside the rocky dome gave him the exact same sensation as the binding ward Medb’s iron bracelets had shackled him with back at the Unseelie Court. Patrick shook his head, tightening his grip on his dagger. At least this time, he had something to fall back on.
“Come any closer, and I will tear out your heart with my teeth.”
The Irish lilt to a raspy voice had Patrick stepping closer to the person who spoke, no matter that it drew him to the center of the spell. Patrick extended his arm, letting the dagger’s white light help him see.
Órlaith knelt in the center of concentric circles drawn with blood, stripped naked and held in place not by binding wards, but iron chains etched with bloody sigils that glowed. Heavy manacles were locked around her wrists, ankles, and throat, the chains connecting to the stone rocks that made up the dome.
Órlaith bared her teeth at him, the split lip and bruised cheek evidence that she hadn’t succumbed to this quietly or easily. Her red-orange hair was a knotted mess, hanging down over her torso and hiding her full breasts from view. Her arms were raised behind her at an angle, the pressure in her shoulders probably excruciating.
Patrick raised his hands in a calming manner, eyes on the concentric circles he’d crossed over. “I’m with Gerard. Uh, I mean, Cú Chulainn.”
Órlaith squinted up at him, the gold flecks in her summer-sky-blue eyes catching the light from his dagger. “I remember you. You fought with him some years back.”
“Yeah. It’s one big family and team reunion right now.”
Órlaith leaned forward as far as she could, the bones in her shoulders rotating in a way that looked as if they were about to pop out of the joint. “Free me.”
Patrick’s heart pounded in his chest. Releasing her was the goal, but it felt a lot like letting loose a bomb in a crowded room, and he was standing at ground zero. Patrick stepped closer to Órlaith and knelt in front of her. The spell keeping her contained was built on blood magic, but he knew it took another immortal to contain an immortal. Zachary might have built the spell’s circles, but Ferdiad was the one who had shackled her on this island in the middle of the ocean.
Patrick raised his left hand and let it hover over Órlaith’s cheek. “Can I touch you?”
“Get me out.”
He took that as permission granted and gently placed his hand against her face, tilting her head back as far as the thick iron collar would let him. A Celtic knot stamped into the iron of the collar glowed with an orange-red light that made it look like metal just taken out of a forge. Patrick pressed the tip of his dagger against the knotwork, the blade flaring with magic that cast strange shadows on Órlaith’s face.
The dagger’s magic cut through the spell cast by Ferdiad, with the sigils fading to nothing down every chain that held her in place. The concentric circles that acted as an anchor to the spell flickered but didn’t fade out.
The collar fell away, and the air became electrified with power as Órlaith clenched her hands into fists and jerked her arms forward. The chains ripped free of the stone walls—and the circles beneath their feet exploded from power that backwashed through the spell which had imprisoned her.
Patrick ripped his shields wider, hoping to encase Órlaith in them, but they both still caught the brunt of the explosion as the spell deteriorated. The stone rocks that made up the ancient dome shattered and flew through the air like shrapnel. The impact of magical backlash against his shields nearly blinded Patrick as he and Órlaith were thrown through the air with enough force they cleared the courtyard and terraces below, flung far from the safety of earth.
Even Nadine’s shields couldn’t stand for long against the power of a god, and Patrick felt her defenses fall before they hit against it at a speed that would break bones. Gravity pulled them both toward the stormy ocean that lashed the base of Skellig Michael that Patrick couldn’t see, his yell lost to the wind. His stomach twisted in a way it hadn’t when flying with the Wild Hunt, arms windmilling hard as he struggled to orient himself in the dark.
I’m gonna die.
The frantic thought was cut off as fire flashed between the sharp teeth of a dragon, the light reflected in Wade’s gold eyes.
Patrick nearly swallowed his tongue when Wade flew toward them from below, wings flapping hard to gain speed and altitude. Sharp talons snagged Patrick and Órlaith out of midair before they could hit the ocean. Patrick curled his arms around one black talon, his legs dangling in the air as rain pelted him in the face.
“Okay!” Patrick yelled, his voice a little high-pitched and heart pounding so hard in his chest he thought it might break a rib. “You’re not grounded anymore!”
Wade snorted fire and smoke out of his nose. Patrick figured that was teenage dragon-speak forno take backs.
Wade flew over the monastery of Skellig Michael before banking hard on one wingtip. He spiraled down to land on the rocky area overlooking the courtyards and terraces. Wade folded his wings forward to cover Patrick and Órlaith as he set them on the ground. Patrick’s feet slipped on the wet rock, but he got his balance back after a second or two.
Then Wade thrust his long neck forward, body shifting over them in a protective manner. Patrick was nearly knocked over, but he managed to stay on his feet. Wade raised his head toward the sky, powerful jaws chomping on what once was a soultaker. His long throat undulated as he swallowed the soultaker down in chunks.
When he finished eating the demon, Wade craned his long neck down toward them, his large wedge head tilted so he could stare down at Patrick with one golden eye. Fire flickered between his teeth, the warmth of it nearly drying the raindrops or cold sweat on Patrick’s face—he wasn’t sure which sort of wetness it was that trickled down his skin.
“We’re good.” Patrick reached up to pat Wade on the side of his scaly nose. Wade huffed out a breath that almost singed Patrick’s hair. “Stop that. Don’t make me ground you again.”
