Page 73 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Past us.

Ally’s hand slid into mine, her fire flickering out as we watched in horrified silence. Demon bodies twitched across the snow, rising like insects from rot. Crawlers. Wolves. Many of them headless. Onyx blood wept from the stumps.

“What in the fuck is happening?” I growled, lightning crawling under my skin.

“Necromancer,” Ally breathed.

We didn’t speak. We moved—split and jumped to the humans, gathering them two by two, depositing them inside.

Necromancer. The word stuck in my throat. By the time we reunited, an eerie green mist curled between the trees, thick and wrong. The few remaining demons screeched and scattered.

Gooseflesh prickled my skin. The power in the mist—it didn’t just move. It pulled.

“Flesh puppets,” Ally said, her voice strained. Her fingers gripped mine as her eyes raked the woods. The mist touched the animated corpses, and one by one, they dropped. Barely audible, Ally whispered, “Where are you?”

And like an answer, a man stepped from the trees. He strolled—strolled—through the carnage, flipping a charred crawler with the toe of his absurdly polished black loafer. The forest itself bent around him, like it recognized what walked within it.

“Oh, fuck,” Ally muttered, eyes locked.

That…was not a good sign. “Ally?”

She tightened her grip, and I felt her shift—subtly, instinctively trying to pull me behind her.

Absolutely not. I stepped shoulder to shoulder with her, anchoring us and reaching for my power. Lightning split the sky, bolts forming a burning circle around him. He halted, eyes flicking to the electric cage.

He was beautiful in that ethereal, ghost-pale way of old souls—ice blond, hollow-cheeked, with eyes like glowing turquoise glass. Alec’s age, maybe.

“Who are you?” I demanded, barely keeping my instinct to shield her in check.

“What ever happened to hello?” he said casually, a thick Scottish accent curling his words.

I glanced at the nearest body. Human. A woman, face frozen mid-scream, charred beyond recognition. Her burned hand still twitched where he’d dropped it.

“Hello,” Ally said coolly, her jaw clenching.

I gave her fingers a squeeze. Who the hell is he? Are we fighting or talking?

Talking, I guess.

You guess? Ally didn’t guess.

I can’t read the minds of the undead.

The what?

Necromancers. I can’t read necromancers.

A jolt of something—understanding tangled with dread—tightened in my gut.

His puppets had defended us, not attacked. And in Ally’s world, that was enough reason to talk first.

“Now,” I said, “who the fuck are you?”

Thunder rumbled overhead. He glanced skyward, annoyed.

“If I don’t answer, are you planning to fry me like these poor sods?” He nudged the body at his feet with visible distaste. My gut twisted. Human. I killed a human.

Ally must’ve sensed the dread icing over my chest because she lifted her chin.