“With uncovering treasure?” the Death Lord asks. “Discovery? In our new world, the daughter of Tempestas will become a god in her own right. She will have so much more than you could ever give her.”
“Goddess,” Zephyra says. “She will be agoddess—they exist, even if you refuse to acknowledge them.”
“Oh, we know,” the Death Lord says. “We know very well of goddesses and deceit.”
And then the cult lunges. Seven heads of the same gods-damned snake.
Violence erupts inside the temple in a frenzy of movement. Vesper tosses one of her daggers to Gavriall. Without a weapon of her own, Zephyra steadies her fists in front of her. I slash through robe after robe, trying to carve my way to her, felling cultists for seconds at most before they rise again. Because they cannot die. Not like this—not if I don’t have the heart.
“Go!” I shout to Zephyra, toanyonestill on our side. “Retrieve it.”
Thankfully, the Death Lord isn’t focused on her as much as it is on me. Ice freezes my wrists and ankles, but I leap away from it, knocking into Mortem’s statue and upending a table. The coins and skull go flying, and Gavriall catches the latter before smashing it against a cultist’s head. The cultist staggers but doesn’t fall—not until Vesper appears, kicking a heavy boot into its spine, spinning, and plunging her dagger through the eyes of its mask. It howls in pain. When its hood slips, she seizes the fabric and pulls, revealing—
Darkness.
Half-formed shadows expanding and contracting,congealing, before rupturing with a fetid stench. Vesper gags and flicks the hood back over its skull. Then she two-hand shoves it into Gavriall, who curses.
Another cultist—two—seize my wings, and I whirl away from Vesper and Gavriall, swinging the dagger across their chests. My wings do the rest. They pummel the cultists into the temple floor as another charges. Launching into the air, I kick it in the face and reach for the vase of roses, but the others have already respawned. They seize my ankles, dragging me down again.Icy claws touch my skin. They peel my flesh straight off the bone.My magic flares in response—to the threat, to the memory—but this time, I don’t scream. The vase of roses explodes. Shrapnel and water rain down on their masked faces, and they recoil, hissing in fear.
My lungs ache, but I ignore how hard it’s become to breathe, searching for pink in a sea of midnight blue.
There.
The Death Lord holds her by the throat once more, and Zephyra thrashes, clawing at its robes. Vesper does the same in his other hand, while Gavriall tries to reach them through two other cultists. He stabs one, only for the other to rise, again and again, as Zephyra slowly suffocates. What’s left of my breath catches in my chest. My windpipe tightens, and my wings beat faster to free her.
Then the Death Lord presses his porcelain lips to her mouth, inhaling deeply. “You taste so sweet,” he hisses.“Divine.”
Rage licks up my spine—at the words, at his ugly fucking mask pressed against her face—and magic bolts from my fingers unbidden. It ricochets into Vila’s statue as the cultists seize my feet, dragging me down, down, down.
They pull me down. They pin my hands and feet, and the Death Lord bites off my fingers one by one. I scream, but—
But it isn’t my screams filling this temple now. It’s Zephyra’s. She chokes, fights,shrieks. Vesper hisses a curse, and Gavriall leaps out of the way as Vila’s head cracks, crashing to the floor where he stood. Crushing a cultist beneath it.
He throws his arms wide and pivots to face me, shouting, “So now you’re great at moving statues?!”
I can’t answer him. The cultists have resurrected again—three of them—climbing up my body like ants. One plunges its sickle into my calf for leverage, while another sinks its teeth into my boot. Roaring with pain, I crash to the floor like Vila’s head. Before I can roll or channel my magic, they’ve scuttled over me, their breath cold and putrid as they inhale.Zephyra.My muscles weaken. My vision blurs. I can’t see her; I can’t breathe because she isdying, and I need to reach her. I need tosaveher—
A harpoon skewers one of the cultist’s chests with enough force to blow it to pieces. Then a second. A third. Groaning, I wrench the sickle from my calf before hauling myself upright, preparing for another onslaught of misery and blood. A blast of hot wind preventsthe cultists from re-forming, however. Thunder reverberates ominously through the temple.
Princess Amaya Frost steps onto the remains of a cultist’s mask, grinding it under her heel. Repositioning the harpoon launcher on her shoulder, she extends a hand to help me up. I knock it away with a snarl. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Her eyes flash, and lightning follows. “The deal is off. I’m making a new one.”
I glare at her hand, my chest heaving. My chestsplittingas if she harpooned me instead. She betrayed us. She played us for fucking fools. But the horrible truth is that I can’t afford to lose her help. None of us can afford it right now. If Amaya can help get our asses out of this temple alive, I don’t have the luxury of justice. “Handle the others,” I rasp, ripping a harpoon from the nearest cultist. “The Death Lord is mine.”
She nods and reloads, and my wings drag me back up on my feet. They carry me toward her. Toward Zephyra. She’s still being choked.Hurt.
Her turquoise gaze locks on mine. “The—heart—” She retches.“Go.”
My wings falter as her voice echoes through me. I should. Ishouldleave her and retrieve the heart. It would solve all this; it would save her—but it might also be too late.
In a burning flash of clarity, I realize I won’t do it. I won’t sacrifice her.
And that flash detonates into purpose.
Without tearing my eyes from Zephyra, I seize the harpoon launcher from Amaya. The second it touches my hand, I pull the trigger, and the harpoon streaks toward the Death Lord.
“Scream,” the Death Lord hisses. It runs a blade across my throat. Blood gushes. I choke on it, scarlet bubbling from my mouth and splashing against the cold marble floor.It doesn’t see the harpoon coming. Its sightless eyes remain fixed on Zephyra, whose body has fallen limp.But somehow, someway, the blood in my body is replenished. The wound heals. So the hooded figure slices me again. Again.
