Demon witches howled. Black blood flew. Head after head rolled. More magic-driven smoke spilled over the steps.
“Ran,” Kruger snapped.
Hunting for the Blind Witch in the chaos, Rannock kicked a witch off the end of his axe. “The room is wrapped in a stealing spell. The second you shift—”
Levin cursed. “She’ll corrupt our magic and—”
“Kill our dragon halves,” Kruger said, raising his hands. Poisonous gas spilled from his palms and billowed down the stairs. The horde climbing toward him gasped. Seconds later, all lay dead, limp bodies littering the lower levels of the amphitheater.
“Jesus fuck,” Tempel snarled, splitting heads, only to have more surround him. “There are too many of them. And more are coming.”
War axes whirling, Rannock spun full circle. Battle-sharpened blades bit into neck muscles and cut through. Heads toppled, one after the other, bouncing down the steps to reach center court. Blood flew from his axes as he pivoted to face the next wave flying up the steep stairs. “How many?”
With a flick of his wrist, Tempel threw one of his hammers. The huge mallet spun like a boomerang, arching wide, knocking minions off the lip of the gallery. As the horde fell down the stone steps, the hammer returned to him. “Too many to count.”
With a snarl, Rannock reset his stance. A male lunged over the last step and plunged onto the gallery. Poison-tipped claws raised, he howled at Rannock. Crazed eyes met his a second before he flew at him. An instant, a single beat was all it took for Rannock to recognize the human planning to attack him.
Henry Biscayne.
His mate’s sire under the unbreakable influence of a witch with no mercy.
“Fuck,” he said between clenched teeth as Cate’s father ran toward him, wild-eyed, dark blond hair matted, eyes the same color as Cate’s full of battle fury.
Guard raised, Rannock rotated the axe in his hand and waited. Killing her sire was out of the question. Cate didn’t want him risking his life for the male, but now that Rannock faced him, he’d be damned if he didn’t bring the bastard home to her.
Henry raised his fist and swung.
Rannock dodged the deadly tips of his steel claws. Time slowed down. His focus narrowed. The fighting moved from fast to slow motion. He counted off the seconds. Three. Two. One…
Henry lunged at him again.
Rotating his axe, Rannock bashed him in the side of the head, blades turned away, flat side deployed. Metal and wood cracked against the side of Henry’s skull. Dazed but not cut, he stumbled sideways… and Rannock made his move.
Grabbing the front of Henry’s shirt, he yanked him forward, slamming his elbow into the male’s temple. Henry went limp. Rannock tossed Cate’s unconscious sire behind him. He landed in a heap on the floor.
Kruger jolted. “What the hell?”
Rannock sliced through another witch. “He comes with us.”
“Who the hell is it?” Tempel asked, slipping on blood, trying not to trip over Henry.
“My mate’s sire.”
“Fucking hell, brother” Kruger murmured. “You always gotta be the hero.”
“Bugger off,” he muttered, fighting off three males at once.
“Time to go.” Hacking at his attackers, ice chips flying from the tips of his swords, Levin bumped into Rannock. “Grab the TriHexe, Ran.”
Battling to stay on his feet, Rannock fought his way closer to the stairs. “The Blind Witch.”
Kruger snarled. “Forget about her. She’s already gone.”
“I want her head. I want—”
“Ran,” Levin said, stabbing the enemy with an ice dagger.
“Fuck. All right.” Lopping off another head, wishing it was the Blind Witch’s, Rannock turned toward the TriHexe. “Tempel—find us a way out.”
“Digging,” Tempel said, turning toward the amphitheater’s outer wall. “Watch my six.”
Hands raised, Kruger conjured a wall of poison fog. Keeping it between him and the horde, he abandoned his position, moving to protect Tempel’s back. “Got you.”
“Brace, lads,” Rannock said.
Holding the line, Levin grunted. “Just get it done.”
Tempel started burrowing. The deafening sound of drilling roared across the gallery, drowning out screams as plaster dust joined the smoke in the air.
Ground shaking beneath his feet, Rannock turned inward. Body fending off the demon horde, mind focused on the TriHexe, he conjured a holding container. Solid steel with bronze threads. Nine layers thick. Strong enough to contain an exploding bomb. Big enough to set the TriHexe inside, rendering it safe for transport.
Metal threads spinning in open air, he knitted the six-sided box together. Calling on his dragon half, he raised his hand and summoned the TriHexe. The metal in the magical device obeyed his command. The crown of hexagons levitated, rising above the golden cradle on top of the tripod.
Rannock flicked his fingers.
Moving like a missile, the TriHexe flew in his direction, up the stairs, over corpses, above the blood streaming across stone. Bracing for impact, he tucked one of his war axes back into the weaponry inside his mind and opened the box. The crown slammed into steel. The container rammed into his chest. Metal shrieked. Magic detonated like a bomb. Blown off his feet, Rannock flew backward. Battling the pain, he scrambled to close the lid.
One of the latches slipped.
Cracked open from the impact, pure power leaked from the TriHexe, billowing into his face, stealing his air, seeping into his muscles and bone. His vision flickered. His mind went blank. His dragon half turned away, sinking inside him.
Kruger shouted his name.
Too little, too late.
He was already gone, falling deep into a darkness so complete, Rannock knew he’d never find his way back out.
19
Key ring in hand, Rathbone wandered out of the study. He stopped beneath one of the soaring tri-arches and glanced up at the mother-of-pearl inlay. A unique design, elaborate carvings depicting the history of his Triad. All the feuds. All the near misses. One pearl added for every battle fought.
Seemed a strange place to put it. He hadn’t argued, though, when Dillinger insisted.
The past always informed the future. And like it or not, seeing his history every time he walked into the study wasn’t a bad thing. Most days, the layout reminded him to tread lightly, go wisely, move through the world in the way of his kind—with a whisper, not a heavy hand. Today, however, seeing the display only made his stomach clench and his temper boil.
He didn’t like allowing others to fight his battles for him. Wasn’t built to stand on the sidelines or turn away from the fray.
He liked action. Wanted battle. Needed the outlet to calm the raw elements of his nature. Flexing his hand around the keys, Rathbone released a ragged sigh. It had been so long, too goddamned long since his steel had seen battle. Without release, the power inside him writhed, begging to be used, unleashed in the ways of the old world.
Back then, finding someone to kill had been easy. These days, not so much. Which made sending Rannock and his warriors to infiltrate the Witch’s Cauldron, instead of going himself, all the more irksome.
The second he grabbed Cate, his conscience started singing.