Page 244 of Burn of the Everflame

Francis slowly pulled his blade.

I shoved Luther ahead of me. “Run!”

“Time to grow some legs, worm,” Taran yelled, letting Doriel go.

Francis bolted toward us, and we scrambled up the stairs. I slipped on a step and lost my balance, tumbling backward. A strong arm pulled my body against theirs to stop my fall, and I sagged in relief—until I felt the edge of a blade graze my throat.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Francis warned in my ear. “The others might not be able to hurt you, but I can.”

The fear in his voice made me doubt him, but I didn’t dare risk it. “Run,” I yelled at Luther. “You can’t let Ophiucae see you.”

Luther didn’t run. With lethal, menacing slowness, he descended the stairs. “Take your fucking hands off my Queen.”

Francis jerked me further back. “Stay where you are.”

Luther moved faster. His voice rumbled in thunderous wrath as he drew the Sword of Corbois. “If that knife touches her flesh, I’ll pry your eyes from their sockets so you can watch while I flay the rest of you alive.”

Francis’s blade wobbled. “One whistle, and my men will come running.”

“Then I’ll either kill them all or I’ll take as many of them into death with me as I can.” Luther pointed the tip of his sword at Francis. “And I’ll start with you.”

Francis looked nervously toward the city. I did the same to the empty southern hills.

“Leave, Luther,” I begged. “I’ll find another way home.”

Francis stilled. “Luther? Prince Luther?”

I winced at my slip. If Francis put Ophiucae’s focus on Luther . . .

Francis glanced over his shoulder again, then back. “You’re working with Auralie?”

Luther studied him before answering. “I am.”

Francis lowered his knife, and I felt his grip on me go slack. A hand on my back nudged me forward. “Go.”

I ran, not daring to trust my freedom until I crashed into the safety of Luther’s arms. He didn’t hesitate, either, pulling me into his side and starting up the steps.

“I’m sorry about Andrei,” Francis called out behind us.

My running slowed. Luther hauled me up against him to keep pace.

“Vance said he was only going to rough Andrei up,” Francis said. “Scare him a bit. It went too far.”

“This whole war has gone too far,” I yelled over my shoulder.

“I know. We’re taking a Descended’s orders. Vance has forgotten whose side we’re on.”

I wanted to scream at Francis that this was no longer a fight between mortals and Descended, if it even ever was, but Luther’s insistent pull kept me focused. Taran and Doriel had made it to the grasslands, their lantern abandoned by the brush. I prayed my brother was with them.

“Tell Auralie I’m sorry, too,” Francis shouted. “I did what I could to—ungh . . .”

His garbled moan finally drew my eyes back. Francis had dropped to his knees, features twisted in pain. He felt all over his body as if searching for a wound.

Luther froze beside me. My eyes shot to the city, expecting to see Vance’s men running to attack, but the streets were still quiet.

Francis doubled over with a groan. When his head rose again, blood dribbled from his mouth—and grey, rotting clumps of skin crumbled from his face.

Fortos magic.