Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Veronica swoops the child into her embrace and a sharp ache lurches up my throat. Her son. Quin’s.
“Where’s F-father?” the boy cries into Veronica’s neck. “They s-said he’s fighting wyverns.”
Veronica delivers a tight look at the aklas and they cower, mumbling apologies.
A small sob. “Is father going to die?”
“Probably,” someone dares to mutter.
“Enough,” I say, voice cracking.
Big brown eyes look at me over Veronica’s shoulder. He has his father’s eyes.
“Your father is clever,” I tell him. “And I won’t let him get hurt.”
Veronica lifts her son, glancing back at me. “I’ll take him somewhere safe.” Her eyes beg mine. “Keep your promise.”
The aklas follow her out.
Florentius finishes flooding antidote into the last child and hurries to the redcloaks.
Urgency is making my throat sting. This poison works ten times as fast. It’s ten times as strong.
A normal wyvern would be exhausted. A normal wyvern couldn’t even poison a person if it didn’t change into its water form. It should take at least a dozen to have so many victims . . . but the adapted strength of the poison, not needing to plunge through a body to kill . . .
These wyverns are different.
Icy, bone-deep shivers slice through me.
The jar slips from my hands and smashes against the floor. I race through the shards to the windows. The remaining redcloaks, Nicostratus, Quin . . . Once they deplete their spiritual energy . . .
They have no chance. Their uncle has fed the wyverns his own blood.
They’ll only obey him.
Unless . . .
“Florentius, can you take care of the redcloaks alone?”
His gaze slices to me, to the fight outside the windows, back again. “Why?”
“Can you manage?”
“Of course.”
I nod, move to the jars of tea and open the one filled with chamomile. I grind a dried flower between my teeth and move to one of the men who helped move the poisoned.
“What are you planning?” Florentius demands. “You’re drained. Your hands are shaking.”
I ignore him and face the redcloak. “Everyone here will die, unless you can get me to the king.”
Outside, gale force winds have me staggering. I brace an arm at my face, curtaining the view of the writhing wyverns overhead. The redcloak obediently covers me as I force my way to the centre of the courtyard. Each breath is a mouthful of tinny metal and blood. A feisty wyvern is slammed away and I flinch.
Keep it together.
In a whirl of cloaks and grassy daggers, Nicostratus and Quin land before me, back to back.
Quin barks, “You’re unbelievable.”
Nicostratus lets his whip fly. “Take him to safety.”
The redcloak grabs the back of my cloak—
I jerk out of his grasp, onto my knees, and snatch a handful of each royal robe. “The wyverns are modified. Your uncle must be growing them with his blood. You have no chance to control them.” I look up. Nicostratus is focused on a couple of spiralling wyverns. Quin’s gaze is hard on mine, listening. “Unless you have more blood in the pack leader.”
“How much?”
“Half what’s running through him.”
“Sacrifice myself, you mean.” Quin says it as if he’s . . . considering it.
I pull myself up hurriedly, scowling. “Slashing your wrists won’t work.”
“How then?”
“Transfusion.”
My glare hardens on Quin as his becomes darker with resolve.
“Let me do it,” Nicostratus says. “I’m expendable.”
“No!” I say firmly. Quin lifts his gaze sharply from mine, settling it tightly over my shoulder. I glance at Nicostratus. “You’re stronger. You have to lead an attack, separate the pack from its leader. Shield us during the procedure. We’ll be vulnerable. At my signal,” I say, “you need to weaken the shield around the pack leader. I’ll need twenty, maybe thirty seconds to get the blood into it.”
Nicostratus hesitates.
“I will not let your brother die.”
He hears the vow in my voice; he calls his men into a new formation and leads them into the fray.
Quin is staring at me, gaze steeling up around a flicker of surprise. His leg is aching; I can taste the pain pulsing from him. I fan my fingers over his chest and push him three steps back, to the edge of the fountain. “Sit. Bracing your leg is depleting you too fast.”
He thrusts out his arm, rolling up his sleeve. “Take it.”
“You’ll feel—”
“You can’t kill me,” he warns. “You’ll be beheaded.”
“If you die, I’ll go right along with you.” I say it fast and foolishly, and hurriedly qualify. “Blood loss is a much better way to go.”
Dark eyes lock onto mine, unreadable, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrays trust beneath his stoic mask.
My chest tightens as I sink to my haunches before him and latch our wrists together with a spell. Quin grunts as I draw his blood, and I gasp as it flows into me, potent and warm, full of life, like protection against the cold of death surrounding us.
I add a second spell and my blood drains out, slowly, to replace it.