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“A liar and a coward!” I slam my sword towards his foot, and he side-steps. “I had to clip your wing, or else you’d fly away, just like you fled my house instead of facing me.”
Drir’gen’s eyes flash, and he deliberately steps down from the counter. He hasn’t even glanced at his wound.
“I am no coward, Volikan. The only reason you are still breathing right now is because I value our friendship.”
“You were never my friend.”
Drir’gen stares at me for a moment, his yellow eyes wide, as if I’ve somehow hurt him. As if he can be hurt. But after what he’s done to Anastasia, I can see all too well that our friendship has never been more than surface-level to him. All the fights he talked me into were for his benefit, never mine.
“Then why are you still breathing?”
Drir’gen leaps into action, and his allies follow. A few stagger backward once they realize that the Prince is fighting as well, but most are either too drunk or too stupid to notice. His back presses against mine and we fight in tandem.
His scimitars make quick work of a pair of dark blue volvath. Their heads roll to the glass-strewn bar floor, and their thick black blood makes that same floor slick and dangerous. The demon behind them slips, a fatal mistake, because the Prince cuts him down where he lies and while he twirls the other scimitar up, removing a demon’s arm, still gripping its jeweled dagger.
I only have eyes for Drir’gen, but it seems as though the entire bar is standing in my way. My swordwork isn’t as fanciful as the Prince’s, but my footwork is fast and my blows are brutal. I cut down everyone in my way until my armor is dripping with their blood.
“I’ll hold the rest back,” the Prince says. “Finish this.”
With the Prince guarding me, I step towards Drir’gen.
I know his every move, and he knows mine. Before he can launch himself at me, I’ve already stepped to the side, blade ready. He parries me easily and twists his ankle behind mine, trying to twist me to the ground.
I skid—there’s too much blood on the floor not to—but I take him down with me. His massive weight crushes me to the ground, but my blade drives him back, taking a deep slice into his thigh with it.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunts, pacing in a semi-circle in front of me while the rest of his friends die at the Prince’s hand. “You’ve always been weak, Volikan. It’s no wonder you’re whipped by some scale-less meat sack.”
He’s trying to piss me off, and it works. With a low growl, I launch myself at him again, and our swords dance while our fists and feet fly. He lands a blow to my kidneys, and all of my breath whooshes out of my lungs at once. Desperate, furious, I swing my sword down so hard that it clangs against his.
He blocks the blow, but I push and push until his own blade is forced against his chest. Until he’s pressed back against the wall. Nowhere to run.
I push harder, and his arms shake as he holds his blade still. Its sharp blade is less than a hair’s away from his body, and he wears no armor. It would be a form of justice, I think, to make him destroy himself.
Then his blade slips free, slashing up and across my face. I taste copper.
Searing pain burns my hand, and I realize he’s sliced me there, too. My fingers are intact, but the blow sends my sword bouncing to the blood-spattered floor.
I’m unarmed.
“Do you know what she said?” Drir’gen smiles wide, like a razorfiend, teeth sharp. “Before I—”
He never finishes the words.
Rage propels me forward, and I hold his sword arm with one hand as I punch into his chest with the other. My nails claw his skin open like some sort of fruit. Drir’gen struggles, but it’s as though my rage has possessed me. I will not die here at his hand. I will not fail Anastasia, not after everything I’ve done.
And here are his ribs, smooth as the oily stone of the table beside us. Drir’gen is strong, perhaps stronger than I am, but even his bones break. I wrap my fingers around them, one by one, and snap them like twigs. Drir’gen howls in pain, his cries more animal than demon, and I smile.
I’m not done yet.
His eyes widen, confused, as his own sword falls to the floor from suddenly limp hands. His mouth is stretched in a silent, agonized scream.
And my hand?
It holds his very heart, which I tore from his chest.
With a vicious kick, I send his dying corpse to the floor, and I hold his heart above my head for everyone in the pub to see.
“If anyone says one word about my mate again, this will be you.”
