Every step sends a lightning strike of pain through my ankle. I don’t stop, but eventually my jog becomes a limp. I grit my teeth and push forward. Use the wall to take the pressure off my foot.
“I have to thank Davis, too, you know.”
His voice is louder, more direct; he’s turned the corner.
“He threw the Kingsmage blood traitor off my scent by opening Gates of his own. I barely had to open any, really. Just one or two, like the night of the second trial. I’d hoped the foxes would take care of Sel, but then there you were. How’d you do that, by the way?”
The pain drives my teeth so deep into my lower lip that I taste blood.
Keep. Moving.
“Did you know the real Evan Cooper played the banjo? Do you have any idea how hard it is to learn to play the banjo? Nightmare.” His laughter is a stabbing sound. Devoid of humor.
He’s closer now, but I know he’s toying with me. He’s fast enough to catch me. To kill me, if he wants. The thought is jolting enough to make me trip. I fall forward onto my hands and knees in the darkness. Then I’m crawling. Crawling as fast as I can away from him into black nothing.
A hot hand closes around my bad ankle. I scream, but he drags me back across the rocks on my stomach, my free hand clawing uselessly at the gravel.
With a grunt, I heave up on my left hand. Punch up in an awkward backswing, knowing full well he’ll see it coming; I don’t need to wound him, I just need him to let go. And he does.
I scramble to stand, but his hand shoots out and strikes me, palm open, in the middle of the spine. The force knocks the breath from my lungs, and I fall again. I twist around to face him just as the Evan Cooper that I knew goes away forever.
In the light of his flashlight, the goruchel demon grins, his human teeth stretching in his mouth until they look like a boar’s canines. His fingers darken and elongate to crimson claws. The skin of his eyes recedes into deep hollows, and his blue eyes bleed to red. The smell that fills my nose is the sour scent of burning flesh.
His new gaze scorches my skin. Like my face could sizzle and peel, melt away until it’s only bones and seared muscle.
“It’s rude to ignore someone who’s talking to you,” he hisses. “Evan liked your attitude, Bree. Rhaz does not.”
“My bad,” I spit. “I don’t like listening to murderers!”
The demon—Rhaz—tilts his head to the side. “I didn’t kill Fitz. I only called the imps who killed Fitz.” When he jerks a thumb behind him, I see the long, fresh cut from the outside of his wrist to his elbow. He’d bled into the ravine somehow as we walked. He’d called those demons in the darkness without us even noticing. He clucks. “Well, no, you’re right. I did kill the real Evan Cooper. Took his life. Pretended to be Fitz’s new Squire—even copied Evan’s humanity enough to take that silly Warrior’s Oath right under the traitor’s nose. But it was awful, Bree. I can’t tell you how many times I daydreamed about ripping the skin from Fitz’s meathead face—”
“Why?” I scream.
A glittering, fanatical glee dark as the cave itself slides into his burning eyes. “To get to Nick, of course. And to wait.”
My lungs burn in my chest, but behind them my heart twists and skips.
His scratching voice becomes low and conspiratorial. “Did you know that if a fully Awakened Scion of Arthur dies, the Lines will end forever?” He giggles. “Kill the head, kill the body. It’d be easy if all I needed was for Arthur to Call Nick like the others do, but that arrogant prick of a king won’t fully Awaken his Scion until they take the blade.”
I crabwalk away, my sword dragging at an awkward angle, but he follows, one silent step at a time.
“And here I was, planning to go for the father! Then precious Nickie asks for you at the gala”—his lips curl in a mocking smile, and he clasps his hands to his chest—“declaring to all that he wants you as his Squire. That’s when I realized that foolish boy would do anything to keep you unharmed. Fight a horde of my demon comrades. Take up Excalibur. Expose Arthur. I had to take you”—he grins—“so Fitz the meathead got kebabed.”
My stomach turns. Bile rises in my throat.
“My mistress, Morgaine, will love hearing how I found the Scion of Arthur’s weakness.” He considers this. “Well, love is the wrong word. She’ll be quite jealous, actually. She adores torture.”
I shuffle backward, but he moves faster than my eyes can track, grabbing both of my ankles this time. “Rude!” he hisses.
My fingers dig into the gravel behind me. My only thought is to grab it and throw it into his eyes, but when my fingertips hit the soil and roots below, the doors inside me snap open.
‘The cave is right behind you. Just ten more steps, Bree.’ My grandmother’s voice urges me forward. I feel her hands, warm and soft, wrap around my heart and hold it in her palm.
Rhaz registers something in my face. His eyes narrow—and I wrench my legs from his grip with frightening speed. Pull my knees tight to my chest, and kick both feet upward to send him flying into the ravine.
53
MY GRANDMOTHER WAS exactly right about the cave. I reach it in ten limping steps.
I turn a corner onto an overhang—and look down into chaos.
Rhaz meant what he said: he’d called his brethren. And they were doing his bidding, fighting Scions and Squires who’d reached the cave before me.
Tor and Sarah zip around the room like streaks of silver aether, shooting arrows at hellhounds and foxes from every angle.
Felicity and Russ are on the floor, each brawling with enormous green hellbears.
Pete and Greer are back-to-back, facing a pack of hounds closing in all sides. Two glowing lions take on one hound, jaws clamped at its haunches and throat.
Vaughn hacks at a fox of his own and seems to be keeping it at bay.
And in the middle of it all, on a small island surrounded by black water, is Nick. Buckled over on his knees with the effort of resisting Arthur’s Call.
My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of him, scratched and bloodied, but alive. Above Nick, his father slashes at circling imps, barely keeping them at bay. There are too many demons here. Whatever Davis had in mind, the goruchel was never part of his plan.
Behind them is a bright sword sticking out of a boulder at an angle. Even at this distance, the clear diamond of Arthur gleams from its pommel.
Excalibur.
I launch myself over the overhang into the curved wall of the cave, sliding down on smooth-hewn rock. I hit the ground floor with a jolt and draw my sword for battle. Test my ankle; sprained maybe. But not broken.
I join Felicity against her bear. She pins it while I stab it through the chest. She takes a flying leap onto the back of Russ’s bear. I hack at its arm until it rears back, sending us tumbling. Russ grabs it by the middle and slams it into the rock wall so hard the entire cavern shakes. Rubble tumbles down on us from the ceiling.
“Try not to bring the whole damn thing down!” Whitty yells from where he’s fighting his own hellfox in a corner. He dispatches it swiftly, then turns toward us with a grin—
His body seizes into a single, rigid line.
Both daggers fall from his hands.
“Whitty?”
His eyes are wide, blank. His chest angles up. Toes drag on the ground, like he’s being lifted—