When I finally tear my eyes away from Westlyn and meet Jude’s awed gaze, a shared understanding passes between us.
Whatever this is, whatever happens, we need to let her finish it.
I don’t know how much time passes, Jude and I watching the vicious dance of blade and blood and cold ethereal light.
Some instinctive part of me eventually remembers we need to document this—for Rook, for Draegan, for Westlyn herself if we’ve got any chance of figuring this out later—and I finally lift my camera again. I’m not even looking through the lens, though—just pointing it in the general direction of the carnage and holding down the shutter button, burning through an entire roll of film in a blink.
Then, when it feels like the moon must’ve set and risen five times over and there’s not a single bloodless inch of skin remaining on the mages, Westlyn returns to us, pale and unsteady, the dagger trembling in her grip.
The mages behind her choke and gasp, barely clinging to the last vestiges of life, no longer able to form words.
“Witchling?” I whisper. “West?”
The light enveloping her finally dims, then vanishes, but that cold hollow feeling inside me does not.
Blood streaks her face, and when she finally meets my gaze, her eyes are ancient and haunted. In a voice that’s not altogether of this world, she says, “The evil ones still draw breath.”
“Not for long,” I assure her, because I’m not sure what the fuck else to do but try like hell to keep her calm and remind her that everything’s going to be okay, even though we’re so farbeyondthe realm of okay, I’m half convinced—halfhoping—we’re all just trapped in some elaborate, temporary nightmare.
“They mustn’t walk out of here alive,” she says.
“They won’t be walking,” Jude replies, his voice soft. “They won’t be alive. That’s two promises for the price of one.”
That same silvery light that pulsed from her skin before now gleams in her eyes, and she lifts the dagger to her mouth, licking the blood from the blade. Then, with a cruel, malicious grin, “Let usendit, then.”
Jude casts me a dark look, the fear in his eyes nearly unraveling me.
In all our years together, I’ve known Jude Hendrix to be a lot of things.
Unhinged. Psychotic. Obsessive. Violent. A total asshole and the most loyal fucking friend and brother anyone could ask for.
But I’ve never known him to be terrified. Not like this.
I close my eyes. Suck in a deep, steadying breath.
Keep it together, asshole. She needs you…
“Give me the blade, darling,” Jude says, and I open my eyes to see her finally relinquishing it.
The moment it’s out of her hand and back on the counter, that same light flashes in her eyes again, ancient and deadly, and for one horrifying heartbeat, I’m certain she’s going to kill us where we stand.
But then a scream of pure agony tears through her throat, and she clutches her head, her legs finally giving out.
I catch her before she falls, scooping her up and drawing her close.
“Westlyn,” I say. “West!”
We bring her to the sinks. Jude splashes cold water on her face, then fills a cupped hand and tips some of it into her mouth.
“That’s it, darling,” he whispers as she drinks. “Come back to us now. We’re here. Just come back.”
After what feels like a fuckingeon, she finally stirs, a soft moan escaping her lips as she slowly blinks back to consciousness.
I tighten my grip on her, and Jude and I hold our breaths, waiting, fuckinghoping…
“Auggie?” she whispers. The haze dissipates from her eyes, her brow furrowing. “What… what happened?”
Jesus fuck.
