I coughed as I sucked in air, my lungs happy for the oxygen, but everything fucking hurt. It burned, and I felt like I couldn’t swallow. But there was no time for any of that.
I ignored it.
All I cared about was killing the blood witch before he could hurt someone else.
I ran after him. He’d been pushed back, but he’d somehow managed to keep his footing, so he was still standing and still recovering from the unexpected magical blast.
His head was thrown back from the magic, and without hesitation, I stabbed my sword right through the gap between his bevor and his chin—right where I knew there was a chink in the armor, so to speak, because I’d worn these uniforms before, I’d practically lived in them my entire adult life before Sedoba.
The man choked on his own blood, his eyes meeting mine with anger burning in them.
He lifted his hands, trying to grab at either my sword or his own throat, and I sneered at him, whipped my sword out of his throat so he’d bleed out faster, and grabbed his wrists, my sword still in one hand, probably digging against his wrist.
“I don’t think so, asshole.”
He was a blood witch, and if he got hold of all this blood pouring out of him, he could easily heal himself and conjure a massive attack spell. That was how blood witches won battles so often. It was why they were difficult to kill.
The more you bled them, the more spells they could use.
They weren’t easy to take out, not unless you were very careful.
So I needed to wait him out until he bled out.
A van’s wheels squealed as it raced out of the parking lot, grabbing my attention, and I grimaced, searching everywhere for the other blood witch—Master Calarel Kelhorn.
Roman’s voice said, “The blood witch and the driver are gone. The rest are dead or incapacitated. We’re good.”
“Why aren’t you going after the blood witch?” He couldn’t get away. Master Kelhorn needed to be stopped. He needed to be killed… or at least arrested. I’d rather bury the evil man, but I’d take what I could get. “You need to get him before he gets away!”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Roman…”
“I’m not leaving you, Oakley.” Rome sounded so pissed off I knew better than to argue with him over it.
Instead, I stared at the blood witch fighting against my grasp and losing his strength with every passing moment.
It only took a minute, and even though I knew he deserved to die—I knew what these evil people did to their own people and to outsiders, and it was too horrible to even think about—I hated watching the life leave his eyes.
The second I knew he was dead, I set his body on the ground and glanced around the area, checking again for any stragglers, for any other attack.
Roman’s two cultists were dead, lying in bloody messes on the ground around him. I had two dead, plus the one in the weird cocoon thing. So four dead total and one captured.
And Master Calarel Kelhorn had gotten away.
“Are you okay? Are you injured?” Roman asked, grabbing my shoulders and turning me toward him. He ran his hands over my arms and chest, clearly looking for any injuries.
I grabbed his hands, stopping him and forcing him to meet my gaze. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt at all.”
Roman closed his eyes and breathed out heavily. “Thank the Mother of Scales.”
“What about you? Are you injured?”
He opened his eyes and shook his head. “No. I’m alright.”
“Good.” I sent him a soft smile, then cleared my throat, released his hands, and stepped back. “Uh… so there was a seventh?”
He nodded. “In the van, dressed in civies. I didn’t realize he was with them until the blood witch got into the van and they took off.”
