“Improvising,” he mutters. “We need the last grenade. It’s our biggest leverage.”
He mixes something that smells like chemicals and death, then shoves a piece of soaked cloth into the bottle. A spark from the lighter, and the fuse begins to hiss.
“Down!” he shouts, and we duck as the door explodes inward with a small boom. Smoke floods the hall.
Okay, I won’t question the good doctor again. It’s easy to forget how he was in the military. War zones. Hot zones. Jude’s a regular ol’ MacGyver.
We charge through.
And then my blood ignites.
The Prophet stands at the center of the amphitheater—half altar, half stage—stun gun in hand. Briella screams as it hits her again. Her back is marked with red welts, her arms spread and bound, too weak to even lift her head.
“NO!” I roar.
Guards surround the Prophet. Others are wrestling Rory to the ground, his face bloodied, limbs thrashing. He gets one loose arm and elbows someone in the throat before they zap him, too.
And then we explode.
The crowd gasps. Some scream. Others run. But not all. Some stand. Armed.
They werewaiting.
Raphael’s bow is up and drawn. His arrow points straight at Alden. “Let her go,” he says. His voice isn’t loud. It’s cold. “I will not command again.”
I’ve heard death sentences that sounded gentler.
But Alden? He just smiles. Slow. Creepy.
“No mercy will be shown,” Raphael says. “You’ve awakened the damned kings of hell.”
“And we are here,” I growl, lifting both axes, “to take back our Queen.”
Alden laughs. Slow. Long. Claps his hands like it’s all theater and we’re the main act. “Excellent performance.” He smirks,tilting his head just slightly, like he’s studying a painting. “I have to admit, I am not only impressed that you survived the drone, but I am pleased. It was a shame not to meet the rest of the men who brainwashed my bride.”
I stiffen, spine locked tight at the word.
“And now, here you are, charging in like heroes in a fable…or rats sniffing out poisoned cheese. How quaint.” He raises his chin, and—snap—he clicks his fingers.
Doors burst open on either side of the altar.
More guards pour in. Dozens.
The crowd parts, and men—dressed like civilians but armed—join the fray. Hidden acolytes.
My blood boils. I draw my second axe.
“Cover me,” I bark to Vincent. “I’m getting Rory.”
Chaos erupts. Gunfire. Screams. Raphael drops three guards before they even draw. Jude lights another Molotov and hurls it into the enemy line. Vincent lays into the acolytes with fists and his handgun.
And me? I cut down the center aisle like a creature unleashed. Blood sprays. Flesh pieces splatter.
I reach Rory first. One guard grabs his shirt—my axe hits him dead in the neck. Another swings at me—Rory lunges up and stabs him in the gut with a stolen combat knife.
We’re bloodied. Breathless. Alive.
And then I see him. The Prophet.
