A flash of light and a curtain moved in an upstairs room. It was gone before he could look, but his mind played it back for him to see, and he smiled in satisfaction. Just as he’d thought, the girl was here. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her right away. Maybe he’d make her suffer first, for betraying his trust and stealing not only the hexagon, but the warrior she’d freed when she’d disobeyed his rules.
He drew a long breath through his nose, eyes closed. He could almost smell the all-important artifact, though it was his other senses that confirmed it was in there. The little thief might as well have brought it directly to his hand, as hand it over to Katsaros. Did she really think, did Katsaros think, that he’d stand by and let it be stolen? A powerful artifact that was kin to his own body, his own blood? One that should never have been created, much less placed in the hand of his enemy. Did they think him so weak that he would stand by and do nothing? His lips drew back in a snarl, teeth bared in fury as power filled him, burning like the hottest flame in the darkest hell, just waiting for his command.
He eyed the wall standing between him and his prize. He’d stripped away the futile plates of human metal, as if those could ever stop him. A delaying tactic, no more. Useful when Katsaros himself was here to defend his lair, but not tonight, with the holy Nico off fighting another battle of Sotiris’s making. And how very convenient that the two events had coincided. It was as if the fates were telling him he was on the right track at last.
He would rule this world before the end. They’d never seen a power such as he was. Katsaros had power, too. But it was wasted on a man like that, one who lacked the guts to wield such a gift the way it deserved.
Sight shifting to a different spectrum than the one ordinary humans lived by, he opened the flood of his power and released it from the dam it had been gathering behind while waiting for his final blow. A single overwhelming strike against the pitifully weakened wards, and he’d have the hexagon back where it belonged.
Shaping his power into a pulsing, missile-shaped weapon, and driving it with his will, he slammed it forward . . . crushing the wall, turning the door to ash, and breaking through the last of the weakling’s wards. Laughing, he stepped into the breach . . . and met a volley of gunfire.
MAEVE CROUCHED next to Lili, behind the barricade of furniture they’d constructed, guns laid out on the floor, piles of magazines between them. She no longer heard the nightmare screams, had grown numb to the pulsing beat of shredded limbs and broken bones. She was horrified to think such a response was even possible, but it was the only way she could think past the crippling dread that seemed to mutter in her ear with every beat. “Death,” it whispered. “Pain. Horrible, horrible pain and death.”
She knew it was Sotiris, trying to terrorize them, make them unable to fight back. And if the circumstances had been different, if hers had been the only life on the line, it might have worked. It was only the fact that Lili would die next to her, the knowledge that Dragan was coming, and that it would kill him if he found her dead, that kept her brain functioning, no matter how much her hands shook.
With shocking suddenness, the noise stopped again . . . only to be replaced a second later by a ballistic scream like the ones that accompanied bombs falling from the sky in movies. And then the door, the whole fucking wall, was gone. And in the smoke and dust, she saw Sotiris. Teeth bared like some feral creature, laughter booming from his chest—all the more terrifying for being utterly wrong—he stepped through the ragged gap in the wall and focused his malevolent gaze on her.
Ironically, it was Lili who shot first, the sound of her weapon firing round after round finally breaking the hypnotic hold he had on Maeve and jerking her into action. Raising her own weapon, holding it in both hands, she fired until the clip was empty, then reached for the next gun and emptied that one, too.
And all the time, Sotiris just kept laughing, mocking their efforts, the shots they fired bouncing like multicolored fireworks off his magic-shielded body, while he followed the scent of the hexagon down the hall and into Nico’s office, where they’d “hidden” the empty box in the credenza behind the desk. He reappeared a moment later, still laughing, triumphant with the purple box in hand. He paused long enough to give Maeve a mocking bow, as he opened the box to reveal his prize . . . and howled in rage. His stare landed on Maeve from across the room, open flames where his eyes should have been, promising such depths of agony that the world had never seen. And then he started toward her, shoving furniture aside, as if it weighed nothing, no longer bothering to laugh at the pointless bullets she kept firing at him. Until he reached her side and grabbed her by the hair, twisting it around and around his fist until she thought he’d pull it out of her scalp.
“You better hope he values your life more than I do, you thieving little whore, or I promise you’ll beg for death by the time I’m finished with you.” And then he strode for the door, dragging her with him, ignoring her struggles, her pathetic fists pummeling his arm.
And Maeve knew she was going to die.
DRAGAN SOARED, catching one updraft after another, as he flew through the night, zooming past creeping lines of automobiles, and above twisting, unfamiliar streets. He didn’t need a map, didn’t need to know what lay below him, he could sense the massive use of magic, feel the concussive power as it struck its target, until finally he heard the one sound that could bring a chill to his soul—Sotiris’s howl of victory, the sound of a madman scenting the blood of his victim.
Folding his wings until he was a missile in the night, he dropped like the predator he was, arrowing toward his enemy with no sound but the rush of wind to announce his coming. He took in the scene as he dropped—the shredded bits of metal that had been Nico’s physical shields, the light spilling unnaturally from a gaping hole where a wall used to be. And finally, Maeve’s enraged screams as Sotiris dragged her over the broken pavement, one hand fisted in her hair and the other raised in preparation for casting a spell that would rip open reality itself and provide an escape for him and torture for his captive.
Waiting until he was feet away from his quarry, pulling his sword as he dropped, Dragan snapped his wings open with a clap of thunder to land on his feet, and in a storm of fury, drew back his blade and jammed it into Sotiris’s kidney.
The sorcerer shouted in stunned agony, dropping Maeve to the ground as he spun around in a flurry of blood, hands lifted and ready to blast his enemy with magic. But Dragan had already drawn back his weapon for the next attack, and now whipped it forward, carving open Sotiris’s gut, slicing through flesh and bone like a heated edge through butter. Sotiris roared and slammed a desperate blow of lethal magic at his attacker, recognition flaring in his eyes when he recognized his enemy at last.
Knowing his magic would be futile against this monster of the goddess’s creation, he shifted his attack, whipping his power out and grabbing a nearby car, shoving it toward Dragan with murderous force.