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The ghost slowly took his blade from his scabbard. The same blade he’d held against Gwendolyn’s throat. The one she’d cut her hands open to push away. This time, Gwendolyn was not here to be his pawn. This time, Sirus would finish what he should have that night in the mirrors.
“You should’ve run,” Sirus said, then he struck.
The ghost lifted his blade to take on the blow just in time, but Sirus knew he would win before he’d even begun. Aldor was tired and sallow, while Gwendolyn’s blood pulsed through his own veins. Her power gave Sirus strength. Again he struck, and the ghost held his own. Again and again.
On the fifth strike, Sirus sensed his chance. He pushed his opponent’s sword wide, dropping one of his own, and plunged a dagger between the ghost’s ribs.
Aldor fell back, those mirrored eyes falling to the hilt of the fae blade that protruded from his chest. He rasped in pain and glared darkly back at Sirus. “I could say—the same—to you,” he replied through strained breaths. He tore the blade out with a groan. “You should’ve left her in the mirror, vampire.”
Sirus lingered like a cat with a fat mouse. “I should’ve torn your head from your shoulders.”
The ghost braced himself, preparing for the next onslaught. “I should’ve dug that dagger into your fucking heart,” he snarled, throwing the one in his hand at Sirus with skill.
Sirus struck the dagger away with his sword, sending it hurtling into the snow some distance away. It was time to finish this. Once and for all. He lunged forward, and as he did a ripple of cold flared up his spine. Their blades met as his marks of protection surged. Then there was nothing but pain. His vision blurred as fire spread through his body. He managed to disengage and retreat, stumbling uncharacteristically as he went.
As suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone. His vision cleared, and Sirus found himself still standing, but only barely. He knew it had been magick, but he should have been protected against such attacks.
Aldor stood before him, his weapon lowered. He hadn’t even tried to attack Sirus while he’d been at a disadvantage. Those mirrored eyes merely glared at him with something that seemed almost like pity. “I warned you, vampire,” he muttered. “Nothing will stop her. Not even you.”
A ripple of ice spread through Sirus once more, but he recognized the magick for what it was now. He felt Nestra’s power sliding through him like a parasite. It was sickening.
The ghost took a step back, as if he were afraid he would catch it too. “It’s your turn to pray,” he told Sirus, pulling further away.
The High Priestess appeared at the edge of the clearing, just beyond her lapdog’s shoulder. She looked zephyr through and through. Her long, straight blonde hair cascaded over her white cloak trimmed in rabbit fur. Her silver diadem encrusted with blue gems glimmered against her pale forehead in the dim light of the moon. Sirus knew Nestra was hundreds of years old, but she looked even younger than Gwendolyn. Her skin was alabaster and smooth. Nothing about her looked villainous. She was radiant. Tall and lithe, with soft blue eyes that matched the gems she wore.
It was unnerving, even for Sirus. She appeared so innocent and youthful, but he could feel the darkness that engulfed her. Could sense the rot that had taken hold inside her.
Nestra’s blue eyes locked onto his as she casually made her way through the snow toward him. She appraised him, and he shivered. Her power was corrupt, but there was something strangely familiar about it.
“You’re more handsome than I thought you’d be,” she confessed in a delicate voice like spun sugar. His back stiffened. She meandered over to the paladins he’d slain, her boots crunching in the blood-soaked snow. “And it appears your skills as a fighter were not exaggerated.”
Unlike most Folk, Nestra didn’t seem at all uneasy being near a vampire. In fact, she seemed comfortable, as if she were merely out on an evening stroll.
Sirus replied with a glare. Nestra was a sharp creature, and powerful. It was pointless to make a move on her without a clear opening, especially if she could bring him to his knees with her magick. Sirus had to be patient. Ready.
Barith roared in the distance, casually drawing her attention. “I’d hoped for this to be a simple task,” she confessed, all easiness. “Aldor.”
The ghost stepped forward. “Yes, Mistress?”
“Go. Find it. Bring it to me,” she ordered. Sirus raged internally but kept his demeanor calm and schooled. She was sending Aldor to fetch Gwendolyn.
“Yes, Mistress,” Aldor replied dutifully. He displayed no hint of excitement at capturing Gwendolyn, as he had in the Hall of Reflections. The ghost hurried away in the direction of the castle, and Sirus at least got some satisfaction knowing what awaited him there. He would not find Gwendolyn in Volkov, but he would find a very irritated Rath.
Nestra circled Sirus slowly, without any hint of trepidation. She was quiet for a long while, appraising him. He waited. “You know, you and I are not so dissimilar, vampire,” she mused eventually.
He said nothing. She was not the first enemy he’d ever faced who’d underestimated him.
She gave a small, amused laugh when he did not reply. “I give you a great compliment, comparing us,” she pointed out. She spoke as if they were old friends. “Tell me,” she added. “Who hired you to steal the Star?”
He kept silent.
She stopped to stand before him and smirked sweetly. It made his skin crawl. “Was it worth the coin, at least?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. Gwendolyn was worth far more than mere coin.
The High Priestess chuckled, the sound like honey. “You’re honest too,” she said, her eyes raking over him once more. “I applaud your loyalty. Though it won’t serve you now,” she told him. “King Thurin is gone, and those who remain in the Zephyr Court have pledged their allegiance to me. Protecting your benefactor will only hinder your chances of surviving this day. And I would think you above dying for something as base as pride.”
Sirus was not sure if what she spoke was truth, but if Thurin was dead, it meant Marcus was likely dead as well.
