“Not bad for a novice,” Kieran said, before Faelan had even lowered his sword. He turned, gritting his teeth against the pain. Kieran grinned, but Faelan saw the concern in his mentor’s eyes before Kieran moved to help the others with the remaining demons. Faelan added his sword, and they quickly destroyed them.
“You should’ve called for help,” Kieran said.
“I thought I could handle it.”
“The others can take care of this. Let’s get that arm fixed while there’s some blood left in you.”
His arm burned like it had been gouged with a hot poker. This was his second battle since he left training and his first real injury. He was lucky he still had his head, and his arm. He never should have let the halfling sneak up on him. He followed Kieran through the corridors, clean except for the blood of warriors. Everything grew hazy.
The battlefield changed. Smoke and sulfur filled the air as swords clashed amid screams of horror.
He saw Kieran again, his face older, pale. He stood outside the circle of demons advancing on Faelan. Onwar, the ancient one, stood farther away, his teeth bared in a triumphant smile. Faelan knew he had to do something fast, or both he and Kieran would die. He couldn’t use his talisman on all of them; Onwar was too powerful. If he could kill Onwar by hand, then the talisman might be strong enough to take care of the rest.
“Kieran, get out of here,” he yelled.
Kieran’s face set. He dropped his sword and pulled his talisman from his shirt.
Faelan’s eyes widened. “No!”
“Close your eyes, Faelan,” Kieran said, his gaze resolute, sad.
“No! Kieran. I can—”
“Close your eyes, my friend.” Kieran didn’t give him time to react. He began the chant, and Faelan felt the air churn.
No, his heart screamed. No. He pushed through the deformed bodies, shoving aside claws and swords as he tried to reach Kieran. The blinding light appeared. Faelan squeezed his eyes shut and threw his arms over his head. There were screams and the clatter of metal from the halflings’ swords. He opened his eyes, his breath raw. The demons were gone, except Onwar. The ancient demon let out a howl and leapt at Faelan. Faelan roared out his own rage and sprang, meeting Onwar in midair. He swung his sword with a ragged cry and took the weakened demon’s head. Faelan landed in a crouch, his throat closed, and forced himself to face the lifeless body on the castle battlement.
A hiss shattered the dream, and Faelan cracked open one eye. His stomach heaved as the light pierced his head. He remembered something nasty being forced down his throat and Bree’s intimate smile as she reached for Druan’s hand.
“How was your sleep, warrior?”
Faelan’s head jerked. His vision was hazy, but he could see he was in a dungeon, smell the dank air. Druan stood by the door, his human lips curled in a sneer. Faelan flexed his muscles, and cold metal bit into his wrists.
“Rejuvenating.” He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry as rawhide. “Michael sends his regards,” he rasped through a split lip.
Druan’s skin rippled, bones lengthening, but he stopped the change. All the Underworld feared Michael, even the Dark One himself.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Druan said, smiling. “You thought the war was the best I could do, but I had far bigger plans. I always have. This world will be mine, without the stench of humans.”
“Tristol might have something to say about that. He didn’t seem pleased to learn about your virus.”
“Tristol.” Druan spat the name. “He wasn’t supposed to see you. Grog was supposed to bring you later, after the others had gone, but Tristol won’t be a problem for long. I manipulated him and the others as easily as I did you.”
“Bree’s trap worked. You have me. Now what?”
Druan threw back his head, laughing so hard he almost shifted again. “Ah, it’s too good.”
Faelan clenched his jaw. It ached like it was broken. “I’m honored that you’ve been waiting for me all this time,” he mocked.
“Your family kept me entertained. Your brothers…” Druan smirked. “Little Alana. She grew into a lovely woman. So… generous.”
His family? The fuzz in Faelan’s head wove itself into panic. He couldn’t let it show. “Still telling lies?”
“I love a good lie, but this beats a fib by far.” Druan moved closer. “I couldn’t let your brothers get away with killing my sorcerer and ruining my virus. Your mother was quite distraught when I finished.”
Faelan yanked at the chains until his right shoulder began to dislocate. He saw Druan’s satisfaction and stopped.
“If you think it’s a lie, then take a look.” Druan slapped his scarred hand on Faelan’s forehead. He tried to jerk away, but the chains binding his wrists held fast. An image formed, his mother, her body draped over a coffin covered with flowers, her frail shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She looked so small. A low wail pulled from inside her hunched body, and she called a name. Ian. It was his brother’s funeral. There was a young woman, heavily pregnant, and a wee lad barely old enough to walk, clutching at her skirt. The lad’s lip quivered as he let go of his mother and touched a tiny hand to the wood coffin. Ian’s wife… and son?
Druan pulled his hand away, and Faelan’s head fell forward. His surroundings swam into focus, and he saw the demon’s twisted gloat.
“Ian was magnificent. Crying out for his wife and son as he died, a week before she bore him twins.”
Faelan’s blood raged, pumping anger and pain with each surge, like a nail driven inch by inch until it could go no more. “Don’t speak their names,” Faelan roared. “You’re not to speak their names!” He twisted and pulled. If he could reach his talisman. He yanked the chains, and his shoulder popped.
A fist smashed into his face, slamming his head into the wall.
“When you wake, we’ll talk about Bree,” Druan taunted as everything went black.
***
Bree heard a soft noise like the wind. Something brushed her face. She opened her eyes, and a shadow disappeared into the high ceiling above her. Her head ached, and she felt like she’d cleaned the carpet with her tongue. She was in a bed. A huge bed. Jared’s? After she’d told him everything, he insisted on bringing her to his house. Why didn’t she remember getting here? The pills he’d given her for her headache must have been too strong, or she had a serious case of jet lag.
Bree sat up and looked around the room. It was too dark for details, but the bed was king-size, the covers a rich brocade—not what she would’ve expected of Jared. What disturbed her more was the imprint of a head on the pillow next to hers. Had they slept in the same bed? She couldn’t remember anything, other than a dream of Faelan curled at her back. Bree peeked under the covers. She was still dressed, not that she thought Jared would take advantage of her.
She got out of bed and tripped over her shoes. She had to find a phone. She’d slept away precious time. Her tote bag was in a chair that looked like it was made for a king. She slipped on her shoes and checked her watch. Five a.m. They’d left her house around ten last night. She had to find Jared and get out of here. Russell could have followed them. Bree went to the door, turned the knob, and registered three things. A gargoyle, voices, and stone. Everywhere she looked there was stone. She wasn’t at Jared’s.