The creatures roared like a fire out of control and leaped across the pit. Primus laughed at their charge, conjuring a stone hammer to strike them with. The Bard screamed something, his face red as he sprayed water at the fire creatures.
The water steamed, shooting up clouds of angry mist. The creatures hissed and sped toward Primus.
Jacob threw a wall of wind at the fire creatures, but their forms only grew, raging higher.
Last shoved me aside. She’d run across the room when Jacob had leaped out of the earth. Now she was back, the Bard storming after her.
“Do it,” she said. “Nobody ruins my wedding. Nobody takes my groom. Finish it. Now.”
The Bard’s face stiffened, and I saw a flicker in his eyes as he considered killing Last. But then his gaze flicked to Luvic, and his upper lip lifted into a sneer. The exposed skin on Luvic’s arms and neck had turned a brindled gray. The hole in his chest had knitted together, but the raw skin was jackaltooth-gray as well.
The Bard gave his son a disgusted look. “He’ll likely be dead by morning.”
“If he’s dead by morning, I at least want a night,” Last said. Then she added, her voice splintering, “He’ll survive. I’ll make sure of it. Now. The binding. Do it. You gave your oath. Do it.”
And so the Bard pressed his hand to his son’s brow, and while Primus and the Clark fought both the fire creatures, and Celia and Ragnor and Jacob darted between them all, Last conjured her binding illusion.
“Luvic,” the Bard said, his voice full of command. “Luvic, look at me.”
Luvic’s fire-drenched eyes jerked to his father’s. They flared brighter, coherence returning.
“That’s right,” he said, pushing the dark hair from Luvic’s forehead, stroking his cheek. “You must bind your troth.”
Luvic jerked, his back arching in pain, and his father sent a gentle, soothing hand over his forehead. “Now, son. Do what I say.”
Last held out her hand. She smiled at the twisted, thorny black rope that stretched from her heart and hovered over her hand. The poison barbs reached toward Luvic’s wrist. He held his arm up, his hand shaking.
His fingers twisted, and the golden rope of his illusion floated over his palm.
I startled, surprised, when I saw the cricket hop into his open hand.
Last laughed. Then her rope snapped forward like a cobra and twisted around Luvic’s. The illusion wove together, two threads spinning, until the black and gold combined into a single infinity knot that reached from Luvic’s heart into Last’s. Then the illusion flared brightly and sank into both of them.
The cricket chirped. Luvic closed his hand gently around it, his fist falling to the floor. Then his eyes rolled back in his head.
Unconscious.
“There,” the Bard said, disgusted. “It’s done. Stick to the bargain. Give me an heir within a year, then I’ll take him off your hands. Permanently.”
The Bard stood, brushing the dust off his suit. He lifted his arms and conjured, shooting a ribbon of glimmering water at the fire creatures. The second it struck them, they disappeared.
The old men—Celia and Ragnor—dove through the hole they’d blown in the wall.
Jacob frowned after them, scratching his chin. His clothing was soaking-wet and dripping on the floor. He casually turned back to the Clarks and the Bard. “So . . . does this mean no cake?” His wet hair fluffed in a puff of wind. He smiled and smoothed it down.
“Get out,” the Clark hissed.
Jacob’s friendly expression vanished as he stared at the Clark, as if he were rooting through the cellar of his mind. The Clark took a hasty step back, his smooth skin turning parchment-pale.
I felt a final goodbye tap inside my chest, then Jacob turned to Last and said solemnly, “Congratulations.”
Then he stepped through the hole in the wall and disappeared.
Last sniffed. She looked around at the destruction. She looked down at her ruined, smoldering dress. She looked at Luvic, unconscious and bloody on the floor.
Then she smiled beatifically and said, “That was exactly how I always dreamed my wedding would be. It was perfect.”
66
