Chapter Twenty-two

The noise behind Varthan distracted his latest tirade against Cera.

With a growl he drew his sword. “We have company.” He nodded at his other two shades as they followed suit and drew their weapons. “Markus, keep Lenore where he is. This shouldn’t take long. If it does, kill him.”

Markus laughed, and Cera glared.

She wanted to wipe the arrogant look off his face.

Cera’s heart leapt when she saw Jorrin, Avery, Hadrian and Trikser rush into the great hall. How had they gotten there?

No.

She shook her head.

They shouldn’t be here, this was her fight.

Where was Braedon?

Come to think of it, she didn’t see the little shade either.

Her mouth went dry when she heard Jorrin shout a battle cry that had to be Aramourian, because she couldn’t interpret his bellow.

Varthan gave a maniacal laugh and turned toward her love.

Just like my dream.

The evil bastard advanced on Jorrin with a sword.

He was primed to receive the blow, but Cera’s mind rejected what she was about to see.

Trikser snarled beside Jorrin, waiting to strike.

“No!” Cera yanked away from the chair.

The ropes fell to the ground with a shuffling sound.

So she could trust Dagonet after all, but had probably just put him in danger, revealing her bindings were rigged.

“You,” Markus yelled. He let his spell go; her uncle crumpled to the ground, lying much too still for her liking.

Cera couldn’t focus on him.

Markus was furious. His body’s bright glow, pale hair standing on end, looked far more angry than after she’d cut him in the corridor.

He wasn’t stalking over to her, but to Dagonet.

Her heart dropped, and she froze by the chair.

“You betrayed us, you filth.” The fair-haired shade whipped his arm up almost too fast for Cera to see.

Dagonet was thrown backwards, hitting the dais with a resounding thud.

Markus drew his sword and rushed the healer.

The healer struggled to wobbly legs, drawing the sword at his waist. Blood trickled down his temple. He must’ve hit his head.

She felt a stab of guilt. Needed to get her sword and help Dagonet. He’d risked himself for her more than once.

“She cares for the filthy half-breed, milord,” Athas shouted as he stalked toward her.

Cera sprang away from him, grabbing the sword Gamel had given her from the floor.

Athas swore, and pointed his own at her. “I will cut you down, bitch.”

Varthan didn’t acknowledge Athas’s shout, for he was fighting with Jorrin in earnest.

Jorrin was holding his own at the moment, anyway. He knew his way around a sword.

The evil ex-lord’s lookalike was just as furious as Markus.

Turning to Athas, Cera steeled herself.

She couldn’t lose to him.

The shade would rely on physical strength rather than magic; she could sense Athas wasn’t as strong in magic as the others, but he was big, almost as tall as Jorrin, and Cera had a feeling he was skilled with the sword he brandished at her.

His sword was much bigger than her own.

Backing up, Cera made herself focus on her foe and not the other two battles going on.

Trikser would help Jorrin, and Avery or Hadrian could help the healer, if he needed it.

Cera risked a hasty glance over her shoulder when the clash of swords rang in her ears. Markus and Dagonet were locked together in battle. Dagonet struggled to maintain control, and she was hit with another pang of guilt.

Allowing the distraction was a mistake. She barely escaped Athas’s first charge.

Losing her footing, Cera stumbled. She hit the ground hard and rolled away just in time to dodge his attempt to stomp her.

Someone screamed her name.

Her shoulder bumped into the chair she’d been bound to. Cera grabbed and hurled the thing as hard as she could at the shade.

Athas grunted as he scooted away, but the chair grazed his side, taking him off-balance.

It was enough to allow time for Cera to get to her feet. She didn’t have to do more. As she readied herself for her own strike, a flash of white crossed her vision.

Trikser threw himself into Athas.

She said nothing to her wolf as he pinned Athas to the floor and ripped out his throat.

Cera squeezed her eyes shut at the shocked, gurgling sound Athas made.

Blood spurted everywhere. Her stomach roiled and she swallowed hard as life faded from Athas’s dark eyes.

Trikser returned to her side and she pushed away revulsion at the sight of all the blood marring his muzzle and white coat. She couldn’t touch him, but Cera sent thoughts of thanks and love for saving her life.

His response was equal parts love and reproach for leaving him behind. His amber gaze burned her as Cera promised her bondmate she’d never leave him to run into danger again.

“No!” Varthan’s shout dripped raw emotion. “You’ve killed my son, you bitch.”

Gasping, she was barely ready as he left Jorrin and rushed her.

Trik slid in front of her, baring teeth, but Jorrin leapt out of nowhere, intercepting the ex-archduke and slamming his sword into Varthan’s.

Cera jumped back.

Jorrin rushed him again and again, their swords locking as he pushed Varthan away from her.

She watched the fight, fascinated. She’d never seen Jorrin swordfight before, but he was good, very good.

He was strong and graceful as he blocked and lunged with ease. So far, neither of them had drawn blood.

If Jorrin could maintain his advantage, he could kill Varthan.

Even though she’d made the vow repeatedly to do the deed herself, it was a relief to think of someone else killing the evil man—even Jorrin.

Sucking in a breath, Cera surveyed the room.

Uncle Everett!

Avery already knelt next to his father, and they exchanged a glance as Cera rushed over. They both helped him into a sitting position.

Uncle Everett groaned and opened his eyes.

“Father, are you all right?” Avery asked.

Everett blinked his golden brown eyes into focus. “Avery?”

“Yes, Father, it’s me.”

“See to your Mother. I don’t know if she’s all right.”

“She is, Father. Mother’s safe in her rooms. And it’s almost over,” Avery said.

Cera’s heart raced, and she swallowed against the lump in her throat when her uncle looked at her and smiled.

“I’m proud of you, niece. You didn’t tell him where the sword is.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Everett.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“Nonsense, child,” Uncle Everett croaked.

“Father?” Avery exchanged a worried look with Cera.

“I’m all right, son.” Her uncle let his eyes slip closed.

“The healer, Avery. He’ll help.” Her voice urgent, Cera looked at the young man fighting for his life.

“If he survives,” Avery said.

Uncle Everett had slipped into unconsciousness.

Placing her hand on his neck, Cera sighed. “His pulse is strong, cousin. I think he’s just asleep. He’ll be fine.”

Avery nodded.

“Jorrin won’t last forever, Varthan is strong. I’ll see if I can help.” Avery jumped to his feet and drew the sword he’d sheathed only to check on his father.

Nodding, Cera watched the fight between Markus and Dagonet. She shot a glance to her uncle, begging silent forgiveness for leaving him.

Trikser growled.

Dagonet was struggling. Wavering on his feet, each sword strike was a bit wider and obviously weaker than the last.

Markus threw spell after spell at him, and the healer was barely able to block or deflect each with one of his own.

Cera rushed forward, her sword ready and waiting for an opening.

Trikser was on her heels, but she ordered him to wait for her word. Even fighting, Markus could kill her bondmate with magic.

Then Cera’s death would follow.

But Varthan gave a loud growl of frustration, and she glanced in his direction.

Hadrian, Avery and Jorrin were closing in on him.

She threw a look of regret to Dagonet. He’d have to hold his own. He’d understand her need to get to Varthan.

“C’mon, Trik,” she told her wolf.

Her grip on the borrowed sword tightened.

Cera joined the circle around Varthan.