Page 381 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

A memory climbed up the ladder of my mind—of this man scaring the shit out of Alec, shifting back into his dominant form just long enough to hit his knees.

To hit his knees and open his arms just like this. Right as Ally and I both burned ourselves out. Right as we failed to close the gate that was overwhelming Santa Bloom.

Agony lanced through me—my well overflowing—as I pulled and pulled and pulled against too much magic for one man to hold. Too much…

Ally. The only other time I’d felt this much power, it had been contained within Ally and August. Together.

Adrastos hit his knees, my cry and his bellow of agony competing through the air.

“Freya!” Somewhere, distantly, I knew that voice—my brother bellowing my name. “Let go!”

But I couldn’t.

His magic was locked onto mine, that siphon dug in like a tick feeding off the most intoxicating kind of power. A cocktail of immortality and darkness as exquisite as the richest wine. Slowly, the flames beyond the windows withdrew, and Adrastos’ shoulders sagged, his arms falling as he swayed where he knelt.

My brother staggered a bewildered step forward, but the bastard was shifting into shadow. One word hung in the space between us when he vanished.

“Hurry.”

My eyes snapped to August, but he was already staring at the doorway, agony written over every fine line on his face.

He ran a bloody palm over his forehead, leaving streaks of black and crimson across his tan skin as it drained of color.

“August?” I demanded, reaching forward to steady myself on one of the chairs surrounding the great marble table at the room’s center.

Sire Gaines, Commander of the Eastern Seaboard, rounded the doorway, panting, a little bloody, but remarkably upright.

My brother said nothing. His eyes flicked to Sire’s as they both caught their breath.

“Moros got away,” Sire rasped, then added with a nod, “He took The Crown with him.”

SEVENTY-SEVEN

A FERAL FURNACE

CYRUS

“Go,” Carr barked, his good arm looped over Atreus’ shoulder as they knelt in the grass outside Luminark. Okay. Maybe the douche wasn’t a total fucking liability.

The magic snapped like a rubber band pulled too far—that goddamn Command of hers breaking.

Relief. Irritation. Terror. Because either Freya had released it herself, or…

Nope.

With a quick dip of my chin, I jumped right back into the burning heart of Manhattan. A calamitous crash of steel and glass had me glancing sideways just in time to see a building a block away collapse into one of the witch’s sinkholes. The force of it blew my hair back from my face.

The air was thick with rancid smoke. Fire devoured the structures of a once-great city. Beneath it, the blight was quick to erode the pavement. The resilient arms of weeds reached through the cement cracks, as if they could hold the earth together.

“Freya!” I bellowed over the crackling inferno. “August!”

“Here!” he barked. I snapped my head in the direction of his voice, bolting toward the building we’d marked as collateral.

The throaty cry of a raven had me glancing skyward; Poe was circling the corner just behind where I’d seen them last. I shifted through the shadows, finding them a step away from emerging into the night, Freya in August’s arms. Relief crashed into me, followed immediately by terror. Wrong. She was limp against his chest, her cheeks rosy—too rosy, like she’d contracted scarlet fever. I was already reaching for her when time crashed back into existence.

“Don’t,” August warned. “She’s burning up.”

“What?” I demanded as her bleary jades found me.