Time to do things my way.
My anger and anticipation surge, spurring my own shadows into movement. They build and mingle with Killian’s.
The feel of his shadows—mystolen shadows—interwoven with mine makes me queasy. The magic is both familiar and yet so wrong. I focus on his face to ignore the pulsing dance of power all around us. It expands overhead like a massive net, until we’re in a strange twilight world, sunlight filtering through between strands of pure blackness.
Fucking vile.
Our magics swarm and tangle together, forming an intangible tent around us, blocking out the onlookers.
“The Tears should be only for us,” I say as I send even more shadow into the walls around us, hoping to distract Killian, to keep him literally in the dark as Stark and Noemi execute the first part of our plan. “They’re too powerful. I don’t want to discuss them where anyone else can see or hear us.”
“Of course, kitten,” he says smoothly. “Don’t worry, once you give them to me, they’ll be safe.”
Anassa’s muscles tense more than I thought possible beneath me. Her anger is bound up in our bond like a tether connecting her heart and mine. I send a pulse of reassurance down it.
Then I slowly pull the two necklaces out from under my clothes, displaying them both in my palm while keeping the chains looped around my neck.
“There are the two of these, made into necklaces,” I start. I want to draw this out as much as possible. The objective is for Tormun’s threat to be neutralized and the Phylax pack back under my command before I attack Killian—to control for as many variables as possible. “These are both heirlooms of the royal lines—mine and the Astreonans’, too.”
“The priestess said as much,” Killian says impatiently. “I can see you’re wearing the wolf crown, of course. And the rest?”
I pull the leather pack from my hip and slowly withdraw Lucien’s crown. “The crown of the Siphon king. It must look familiar to Alistair?”
In a split second, Killian’s face does that uncanny transformation fully, as Alistair takes over. His eyes roll back, face going totally slack. Then there’s someoneelsethere, behind his features.
He strides toward us, arm outstretched. “Give it to me,” he hisses, even hisvoice a slightly different tenor than Killian’s own. Anassa and I move back warily.
“Bring back Killian,” I order, voice shaking with disgust and just a tinge of fear.
This is the Siphon who orchestrated the downfall of my family and invented the shackle at my wrist that gives Killian control of my powers. This is the ancient being that even Killian fears to go up against without the full power of the Goddess Tears in his arsenal.
I don’t want him involved in this conversation. I know how to handle Killian; I don’t know how to handle him.
Killian’s face is pulled into a sneer by the parasitic Siphon inside him. “We’ll have lots of time to talk later, little Sturmfrost girl. I look forward to it.”
Another uneasy transition and then Killian is back, breathing heavily for a moment before he pulls himself together as if nothing has happened. “Ready to show me your latest prize, too?”
I reach into my pack again to withdraw the Tear from the statue, but before I get ahold of it, a blast comes through the connection to Stark in my head.
Pain.Shock.More pain.
I have to grit my teeth to keep from doubling over.
“What’s happening?” I call desperately to them both, tensing at the attention it’s taking to maintain this mental connection while maintaining the shadow barrier around me and Killian.
My magic rises in response to my need, the surge of power flowing through me like a shocking plunge into icy water. I embrace the sharp prickle of the crown on my head and the Tears at my neck and on Lucien’s crown in my hand, as they serve as conduit to more andmore.
“Tormun somehow knew what we were planning,” Stark sends back with mounting anger and bloodlust, making my heart beat faster.“He had a squadron of Phylax ready to trap me with their shielding power.”
Fuck.I reach for him. Our minds pull even closer together, and Ifeelit as he summons a massive amount of impelling power, slamming it against the walls the Phylax traitors have built around him.
“They’re weakening already—they underestimate the power of a Sovereign Alpha. But I think I’m going to be busy here for a while,” he tells me grimly as he sends another bone-rattling blast of power out against the magical cage around him.
Distantly I can hear the noises around him—two dozen or more Phylax riders, grunting as they maintain their barrier against his strength.
Tormun’s taunts, promises of violence to come.
The harsh sound of Stark’s breathing as he gathers his power for another blow against his magical prison.
