“Shit, shit, shit—” Sikras pinched his eyes shut and huffed. He had died before. Definitely wouldn’t recommend it. But he feared less for his own life and more for Benjamin. The securities he put in place to stabilize his soul during sleep and unconsciousness were one thing, but death ... There was no concentrating on the spell in death.
The only hope he had was meeting Dionus in Enos. Could he punch a god in the face without a physical body?
He was about to find out.
Eyes still closed, Sikras sucked a stream of air through his teeth.
Tensed every muscle.
And waited.
When searing agony in the form of steel didn’t come, he waited some more.
Either his attacker needed to work at his speed, or he was drawing out things to be unnecessarily cruel.
Emboldened—and perhaps a bit impatient—Sikras opened one of his eyes.
Pink hair. Pointed ears. Textured horns. The back of Helspira’s head was certainly low on the list of things he expected to see.
Lower still was the sight of her extended sword arm, her blade buried deep in the throat of his would-be attacker who choked out a mouthful of blood.
“Helspira?” A short, compulsory laugh came from nowhere, and with the scythe’s aid, Sikras stood on shaking legs. “Blood and bone, you saved my—”
When she buckled at the knees, he dropped his scythe, his arm instinctively wrapping around her waist. He tried to ease her fall, but the dead weight dragged him to the ground with her.
“Hels?” Eardrums still throbbing, he could barely hear his own words as he knelt behind her. Only when he cradled her back against his chest did he see the flash of the buried halberd’s steel and the long pole protruding from her abdomen.
“No-no-no-no-no,” he whispered, frantic, unsure. What did he do? Remove it? Leave it? Dammit, why did he focus so much on postmortem rituals and not more on ... err ...not-dyingrituals? His mind flooded with spell phrases, cantrips, useless lore about Siaphara, how to bring a body back from the dead, but not a single practical memory on how to prevent one from perishing.
Even if he knew the right spell, his fingers wouldn’t obey. He couldn’t cast to save his life. Or hers.
Her prosthetic mocked her pain with its lifelessness, but in the black and red of her demonic eye, he saw her fear. Her agony. She locked onto his gaze as if it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the waking world.
Mouth dry, heart pounding, he tightened his grip around her. “Why?”
Helspira’s throat bobbed when she swallowed. Saliva? Blood? Both? Her trembling hand found his, and she squeezed. “Nyllmas needs Catseye more than it will ever need a demon from Chthonia.”
Sikras wrapped his fingers around hers and pulled her hand to his chest. “Is this a bad time to tell you that I have eight lives left?”
“You might,” she choked out, her eye shimmering with unshed tears. “But Ben doesn’t.”
Sikras inhaled sharply. She was right. It was a gamble that he could invoke one of his spare lives, crawl back from Enos, and resurrect Benjamin in time to retether his spirit to his bones, before Dionus claimed him.
“I just wanted to save Nyllmas.” Her voice squeaked out as a tear stained her cheek. “I never wanted it to be at the expense of Ben’s life. He’s my friend too. Please. Believe me.”
Her plea, desperate and sincere, hurt as much as the helplessness that plagued him. “I believe you.”
“Good.” Her head collapsed against his arm, eyelids fluttering, voice weak. “I'm so sorry. For everything.”
“Keep those eyes on me, okay? Listen”—he lowered his head until it hovered inches above hers—“we’re going to save Nyllmas. I promise. It’ll just have to wait a little bit longer. Now, you promise me something. You’ll hang on, okay?” He searched the field, the bodies, trying to find Benjamin.
She said nothing.
Sikras called out for Benjamin, then looked back down. “Promise me, Hels.”
Her breathing labored, and her eye rolled into the back of her head.
Stomach sinking, he held her against him with the only arm that allowed it. In the fray, he couldn’t spot Benjamin. But he did find Rowan.
