“Let’s not play any games, boys,” Margot croons, using me as her human shield. “We all know how this ends.”
“Oui,we do,” Dantë growls. “With your cold corpse rotting in the dirt.”
Margot’s chuckle sounds like scales slithering through thorns. “One day, Reaper. Just not today. Unless, of course, you want your mother’s ring back now rather than never…?”
Dantë’s finger flirts with the trigger. Nikolai orders him to stand down.
“Back off, Volkov,” the former snaps, swinging his gun and training the barrel on Nik, “or you’re eating lead.”
“I’m not your fucking enemy,” the latter snaps back at the same time Brontë barks, “Both of you—enough!”
More poison drips from Margot’s lips, incantations slipping between them. She’s turning them on each other, the power of suggestion magnified by whatever those words mean.
And I’ve hadenoughof this insanity.
I may have a gun to my head, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get to choose whether I fight for life or roll over and let death take me.
“Coward,” I spit, my chin snapping up. My skull bashes Margot’s nose with a satisfying crunch. She yelps, her head whipping back, and—
Bang!
I expect my lights to go out, but then I grasp I wasn’t shot. My eyes widen on Brontë’s smoking Kimber as Margot's gun falls from her hand. She clutches her bleeding shoulder, her teeth stained scarlet as blood hemorrhages from her broken nose.
Something cracks above us. It sounds like bones snapping.
Margot’s gaze lifts, bloodshot whites flashing in both awe and terror. “He’s here.”
I see nothing but smoke.
Then every flame in the chamber snuffs out.
Time slows. Every blink is a decade; every motion, an eternity.
Impossible. This isimpossible.
My heart rebels in my ribcage. I hear nothing but my own rapid pulse and heaving lungs. I feel a touch on my cheek so cold, it burns like winter fire. An arctic breath frosts the sweat on my temple, chilling as death.
“Filia.”
The voice is both young and ancient, man and beast. I shake uncontrollably as the feeling of fingertips like icy fire trail down my arms. I hear my restraints clinking, as if a claw is dragging through each link. A growl, unholy and as monstrous as a creature risen from the depths of Hell, rumbles through the dark.
That's when I see them: the eyes cracking open an inch from mine.
They're breathtaking…and they're the things nightmares are made of—draconic and glowing a radiant, vibrant violet. Swirls of flames dance within them, rippling at their edges like hellfire. I see myself within them, terror on my face, and I swear they soften in response to my undiluted fear.
My mouth opens for a scream, but then those harrowing eyes close. Upon my brow, I feel my fringe being brushed aside, replaced by freezing lips. Against my skin, the voice whispers, “Occidere.”
My collar shatters, and my chains snap.
Time jolts. Sconces blaze to life, scorching the dark to light. The otherworldly presence is gone—along with Quinn’s body.
But I have no time to question any of it as Margot is already bolting up the stairs behind the three confused men. Dantë whips around first and takes chase. I snatch her forgotten pistol and dash from the pyre, barking, “Nik, grab my parents. Brontë, check on Jezebel.”
Brontë snags my throat as I’m rushing past. He wrenches his bloodstained mask up and strikes my mouth with his. For just a heartbeat, I let myself kiss him. Earth could be falling above us, and I wouldn’t even notice as he delves deep enough to taste my soul.
“Don'teverlie to me again, Poppy Morgenstern,” he growls, voice breaking, before ripping himself away and dashing to Jezebel.
Head still spinning, I catch up to Dantë at the mausoleum entrance. He’s teetering, losing his balance as blood streams down his right pant leg.