Levin bared his teeth.
Tempel mouthed, Fuck.
Rannock agreed.
The stakes had just been raised. Aborting the mission if things got hairy was no longer an option. Rathbone and his Triad required the TriHexe. What the Shadow Walkers did with it was anyone’s guess. Might be for the trio’s continued good health. Could be Rathbone needed it to accomplish the ancient task entrusted to him by the Goddess of All Things, or to finish weaving connectivity back into the world.
Didn’t matter.
Right now, Rathbone’s reasons were irrelevant. Rannock might find out what he used it for later, or he might not. Whatever. For now, only one thing mattered. He must move to protect the TriHexe before the Blind Witch consumed what little magic remained.
Shifting, he settled into a crouch. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he stared at the warriors beside him.
Each one nodded.
Good to go. Not a hint of hesitation.
With a growl, Rannock set his hand on the railing. Muscles cranked tight, he leapt up and over. His feet cleared the stone lip. Ripping free of the cloaking spell, he plunged into the Witch’s Cauldron, roaring as the Blind Witch spun to face him.
White eyes devoid of color met his gaze. She hissed, flashing blackened teeth filed into sharp points.
Her minions shrieked, letting out a battle cry.
Landing hard, Rannock conjured twin war axes and entered the fray. No time could be wasted. Mission now trumped all. The very fabric of the world depended on it.
18
Boots sliding across the floor, Rannock dove beneath a wave of black magic. Tucking his head, he somersaulted across the upper gallery. His shoulder rolled over smooth concrete. The toxic brume streamed over his head. A single revolution and he was on his feet, ready to fight. Prepared to annihilate and protect the TriHexe as its pulse weakened three flights below.
Rotating the war axes in his hands, he snarled at the witch standing in the center of the amphitheater. A series of steep stairs between him and her—no easy way to reach her unless he shifted into dragon form.
Kicking the robe at her feet out of the way, she shifted into a fight stance in front of the TriHexe. Hands raised, fingers curled like claws, her white, sightless eyes drilled into his.
“Dragons,” she hissed, razor teeth flashing.
“Witch,” he growled back, aggression swirling in his veins.
Painted blood red, her lips curved. “Rathbone… always the clever one.”
Her voice slithered through open air, inciting violence.
The urge to uncage his beast raged through him. He wanted to accommodate her and unleash hell. Destroy her, then turn his magic on her minions, ensuring she never ventured beyond her coven again. Instinct stopped the impulse. Something about the setup bothered him. Something Rathbone mentioned warned him.
As powerful as he and his brothers were, none could enter the underground warren. Which told him the magic inside could damage the Shadow Walkers, ruin the males in some way. Poison each one, leave lasting effects if it didn’t kill them first. Strange. More than a touch alarming. The conclusion might be right, but made very little sense, unless…
His eyes narrowed, he stared at the witch.
She was too still. Frozen in place as she watched him. As though waiting for something to happen.
What exactly?
Excellent question. One he must answer before shifting into dragon form. Holding her gaze, he bared his teeth. His fangs elongated. His fingernails morphed into sharp claws. More catlike than Dragonkind, but good enough to provoke a response as he unleashed his own voice, roaring at her.
White eyes aglow, she screamed back, revealing two rows of serrated teeth. Sound waves shot from her mouth. Putrid air warped, blurring his vision right before the invisible pulse struck the middle of his chest.
Oxygen disappeared. His lungs contracted. Pain rippled around his ribcage.
She screamed again.
The second concussive wave hammered him. The blast threw him backward. His feet left the floor. He slammed spine-first into the wall. Concrete crumbled. A cloud of dust rolled into the air. The punishing pulse pushed him deeper into stone. Pinned four feet off the floor, he kept his eyes open and his war axes raised as smoke filled the amphitheater. Thick curls billowed up the stairs.
The Blind Witch stopped screaming. Sound waves disappeared. Dropping to the floor, Rannock hunted for the witch in the chaos. She sank deeper into the smoke, obscuring his view of her.
Smart move.
The brume hid her well, making it almost impossible for him to track her from his position above the theater floor.
Weapons at the ready, he lunged toward the lip of the gallery. The stench of black magic filled his lungs. Bile sloshed against the back of his throat. Again. He’d lost count of the number of times in the last hour. The toxic mix hit him again. He gagged. Hellfire, she stank in ways he’d never smelled before, ways that signaled trouble for him and his brothers-in-arms.
Forcing himself to take another drag, Rannock shifted through the complexities. The taste washed over his tongue. His stomach pitched. Refusing to give up the hunt, he stayed with it, separating the components. Some witchling magic derived from incantations. Some power drawn from the TriHexe. But the other third—pure Fae magic.
“Shite,” he rasped, exhaling toxins from his lungs.
She was a hybrid, one in control of black magic fueled by a powerful bloodline. Which limited his options. No way could he shift into dragon form now. Allowing his beast out to play was too dangerous. Any other time, in any other situation, he wouldn’t have hesitated, would’ve used teeth, claws, tail, and exhale to annihilate the witch’s coven. But after reading the air and tasting the magic? No fucking way. Too much toxicity hung in the air.
And hidden inside it, a stealing spell, one designed to trap him.
He smelled the incantation, sensed the darkness hovering just under the dome, waiting to strike, just like the witch. The instant she saw his dragon, she’d drop a net over him, steal his power straight from the source.
The realization strung him tight.
Spinning toward his packmates, Rannock shouted a warning.
Busy fighting, none responded.
Pivoting, he raised his war axes and, meeting the enemy horde streaming over the top step, reached out with his mind. The link opened, connecting him to his brothers-in-arms. “Donnae shift! Donnae—”
“What?” Battling four witches at once, Levin swung twin ice swords. Frosty blades bit into once-human flesh turned something else. Black blood flew, splattering across pale stone.
Magic frothing, seconds away from shifting, Kruger growled.
Panic tightened its grip. “Ruger—stop!”
Yellow eyes aglow, Kruger hesitated. “Why?”
“She’s mixed blood. Half Fae, half Witchling.”
“So?” Dark eyes shimmering with unholy light, Tempel raised rock mallets the size of Thor’s hammer. Stone struck bone, splitting a minion’s head wide open. Spinning to face another, he bared his teeth. “What does it matter to us?”
Fighting back-to-back with his brothers, Rannock rotated into a smooth spin. The enemy crested the last step. Five across, three deep, weapons aimed at him, the horde swarmed.
He struck, slicing through flesh and bone. Bred inside the coven, demon witches dropped at his feet. More of the Blind Witch’s minions streamed up the stairs into the gallery, long hair flying behind each one. Blades shimmering bronze in the TriHexe’s glow, he swung his double-sided war axes over and over, again and again. Striking with precision. Spinning beneath glinting swords and gleaming knives. Avoiding the sharp bite of poison-tipped steel claws his enemy wore.