I jam it into his neck, once, twice, three times.
He grunts out a watery cough, then slaps a palm against the wound as he staggers up off me.
I push to my feet, dizzy, nauseous, as his frantic eyes search for a weapon. They land on the discarded crown, but he hesitates just long enough that I’m able to kick it over the edge. It tumbles to the rocks below with a tinkling crash.
I lunge for him again, using the thorn to punch him in the stomach, the thigh, the shoulder, rending flesh with every blow. Torvil manages to block some, but not all. I catch his palms, his forearms. I can’t get close enough to stab his face, but god, do I want to try.
Blood splatters my chemise, my skin, warm and wet, and he’s covered in it, too—crimson streaks through his white hair and a thick, sticky layer on his palms.
He’s weakening, I can feel it. And I’m too slippery to get a firm grip on. He did not expect this. Did not expectme.He brings shaking fingers to his mouth and whistles, two sharp, gurgling blasts.
Calling Mortis.
My chin hooks over my shoulder as the beast breaks through the tree line, followed by Aowen. She’s carrying Sir Quinn’s bow and quiver.
Torvil grins like he’s won, wincing as he pulls the vials from his pocket.
“Last chance!” he gurgles. “Accept my offer, and all will be forgiven. Otherwise, I fear my hound is about to end you. No bother. I’ll do this all again next year with another candidate.”
Mortis rushes toward us, head down and snarling furiously as Aowen plants herself and notches an arrow.
“Come on,come on,” I mutter.
Time slows as Mortis pounds forward.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen feet.
His raw meat smell fills my bruised, burning lungs as?—
Twang.
Thwap.
An arrow explodes through Mortis’s good eye, and I leap sideways, grabbing the green vial from Torvil’s outstretched hand and rolling away.
His beast slams into him, and they tumble off the cliff.
Chapter
Fifty-Eight
My lungs are a fiery bellows and every inch of my body is aching and bloodied—some of it mine, most of it Torvil’s—as I clutch the poison vial and stare down at the valley below. There’s a slash in the greenery at the bottom of the cliff, the trees bent and broken, and I can vividly picture the red pulp and smashed bones that were once Torvil and Mortis.
And the antidote.
Despite it’s loss, a smile curves my cracked lips before I am whisked off my feet and pulled into a crushing embrace by Aowen. I wince, and she pulls back, her hands hovering over my injuries.
“Sorry, sorry,” she murmurs. “Fuck me, Charlotte, that was spectacular.”
She leans over the edge, and I know the moment she finds the smashed trees. Her mouth presses into a thin white line, and her eyes narrow. She makes some kind of slashing gesture over her heart, as if she’s cursing Torvil’s corpse.
Leaves crunch behind us, and Skadi lopes out of the forest, followed by Lachlan and Sabre. Lachlan is mostly unharmed, save a few scratches and dents in his armour and a weeping slice down his cheek that only serves to make him look more dashing. Sabre leans heavily against him, limping and cradling an arm far lower than it should be. Dislocated shoulder, I suspect.
Aowen sprints toward them, trading places with Lachlan, who’s standing before me faster than I can blink.
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask if I’m okay—he knows I’m not, for so many reasons—just pulls me into his arms and holds me against his chest.
