One of the riders turns my way, its entire body shifting so that its head can stare at me. Good. I’ve got its attention.
“Oh,” I continue, grip tightening on my sword. “Or do you not have dicks? They rot away along with the rest of you?”
The Dullahan starts to stride my way, eyes dead set on me. It’s impossible to glean any emotion from that cold, lifeless gaze, but I’d place a good wager that says the thing is pissed. I ready myself, dropping down into a fighting stance. I can take this asshole. I just need a clear shot at that ugly mug of his.
But then, a second glides toward me, and suddenly I’m not feeling so confident. At least it isn’t my parents who are outnumbered anymore. I raise my blade. Square my shoulders. I can do this. I’m going to kill these two headless bastards, and then, I’m going to go for Seamus.
My blade comes crashing up to meet the first Dullahan’s sword, the blow reverberating right down into my bones. I dart back, barely managing to parry a hit from the second. Before I know it, the first is back on top of me again.
One of their blades makes its way through my armor, slicing into my skin. The other manages to get in just as vicious a hit on my other side, forcing me to drop to my knees. My sword is sent skidding across the flagstones, just out of reach.
When I look, inches away from me, there’s a gray, sallow face staring back with a yellowing gaze.
Even though there’s barely anything recognizable there anymore, I know him—that withered mug is seared into my nightmares forever. Schlicking the blade from its chest. Towering above my grandmother.
Seamus standing behind her, flail raised.
All of the fury that I feel for Seamus, for his Slayborn, for the entire farce that is the Làidir—it all narrows down to a laser focus on this fucker. All of the people, all of the fighting, all of the things that have robbed me of my life. Four years without my parents, without my people—four years of living alone. Four years of being nothing.
And for what? Glory? Bloodshed? Some feud so old that nobody can even remember how it started?
I look up at the Dullahan, still on my knees, my face level with his. Our eyes meet and what’s left of his lips curl back over rotting teeth.
A smile.
Fuck this guy.
The unearthly screech that rises through the air doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to some beast, some animal hellbent of fresh meat and bloodshed. At first I think it’s a banshee, until I realize that it’s my own throat that’s burning.
I throw myself into a full-body tackle, shoulder first. Where there should be a solid body, though, I tumble through a choking cloud of black smoke. Sour. Sulfurous. I roll into a squat, looking around for my sword.
It’s a few feet away—just within reach.
I make a mad dash for it before the Dullahan reappears, but just as my fingertips reach the hilt, a bony foot materializes in a swirl of smoke. It comes crashing down on my hand, grinding the delicate bones underneath its heel. When I look up, there he stands again. Still staring. Still smiling. Sword raised directly in line with my throat. The execution blow.
I glance up to where Seamus stands. He’s still slashing away at Castor, both of them swinging and blocking with expert blows. But while Castor is flushed, sweating, bleeding, Seamus might as well be down at the country club playing golf. He knocks Castor’s blade away with another lazy swipe, and then, his eyes break away to sweep the room.
They land on me—on my knees in front of his prized Dullahan, its sword about to slice through my neck. The smirk on Seamus’s face widens to a feral grin.
The obsidian blade swings sideways through the air, so fast I can hear it sing as it makes directly for my neck. I clench my eyes shut, partially out of instinct—really, though, it’s mostly to shut out the sight of Seamus’s grinning face. I don’t want him to be the last thing I see.
My body tightens, tenses, trying to brace itself for what’s coming. There’s no life flashing before my eyes, though—no sense of calm that washes over me. Only fury. Fury that I came so damn close only for things to end like this. Fury that it’s going to be this fucker that kills me. Fury that Seamus is going to win.
I wait for the blow to land. Pain, and then peace. But the pain never comes.
There’s a roar from in front of me, and when I crack an eye, I see Gentry—still towering even in a crouch, placing himself directly between the Dullahan and myself. His sword is thrust over his head, trembling in the air as he strains every muscle in his body to hold off the creature’s blow.
It keeps pushing against him, pressing, trying to force the Underking to his knees as well. The head in its arms stares at Gentry with unblinking eyes, bloodshot with the strain. Completely unguarded at the Dullahan’s side.
Vulnerable.
I grab the dagger from my side, but before I can so much as lift it, I’m thrown off my feet by a sharp blow to the face. A bony hand makes contact with my cheek so hard that I’m sure each separate knuckle has left its own mark. I land hard on the stone floor, the uneven surface tearing into my palms.
Shit. I had forgotten about the second one.
I flip onto my back just in time to see a blade come crashing down toward my face. With a grunt I roll myself out of the way, and a split second later there’s a furious clatter as the sword bangs down against bare flagstone. In an instant the Dullahan is coming at me again, and I hear Gentry shouting something indiscernible from behind me. Hoarse. Panicked. I don’t think I could have ever imagined him sounding panicked.
I whip around, shooting him what I hope is a reassuring smile—I’ve fucking got this—but a second later, I feel a white hot, electric pain shooting from my cheek. When I clasp my hand to my face, it comes back bright red.
Gentry immediately abandons the Dullahan fighting him, shoving me out of the way before lunging at the creature poised over top of me. It begins to disappear in a wisp of smoke, but Gentry grabs it by the robe, slamming it back into the floor with his entire weight.
It’s as if his grip keeps the thing grounded. It keeps on swirling into nothingness and reforming in clouds of black, like a program failing to boot, shrieking each time with an inhuman wail.
That leaves me to deal with the other—the one with the withered, ancient face. The bastard responsible for my Meemaw’s death. I turn to face it, wrenching a nearby dagger from a lifeless hand—ready. First this asshole. Then on to Seamus.
It comes at me faster than I expected, on top of me in an instant. I almost don’t meet its blade in time.
The creature in front of me is the only thing in the world that exists right now. All the fighting, the screaming, the bloodshed around me—it all fades away into the billowing black of the Dullahan’s robes. Castor. Gentry. My parents. Even Seamus and his self-satisfied smile disappear. It’s just me, my knife, and the fucker that I’m going to take out. Fighting alone, just like old times. Like before this whole mess. Back when things all seemed to make sense.
A sudden calm.
And then, I attack.
I strike hard, fast, kicking out to sweep whatever legs he has from under him. The Dullahan simply wisps away, reappearing at my side in a cloud of sulfurous smoke. I dive again, and this time, my knife finally makes contact. It slams against the creature’s arm, sinking deep down into the bone.
The Dullahan tries to vanish again,so I grab its cloak like Gentry had—threadbare, rough, greasy. And a second later, all I hold in my fingers is a curling tendril of smoke.
“Berkeley!”
I hear my name from across the room, but it barely registers. Whoever it is, I don’t need their help. Castor was wrong—I can do this alone. Hell, I’ve been doing everything alone for years, now.
I come at the Dullahan again, blind rage still fuelling my every move. I’m fast enough to land another solid hit to its leg, but not enough to avoid the gnarled hand that shoots out from under the thing’s cloak. It grabs me by the neck, bony fingers clawing into the delicate skin, wrapping thei
r way around the tendons holding my head upright.
It begins to squeeze.
I grab at the arm, trying to pry the fingers away from my neck, but they’re too tight. Instead of staring into his eyes, now, I stare at the bloody stump where a head should be. And I thought is face was bad.
His fingers are so tight now that the only breaths I can take are shallow, wheezing things. I kick my legs, trying to swing myself from the Dullahan’s clutches. It’s useless.
I can’t breathe. The blood pounds in my head, past my ears, behind my eyes. Spots flash in front of my vision. Dark splashes of black rimmed in white light. I manage to suck in one last, shuddering breath before my airway is closed off completely. I’m still squirming to get loose, but at this point, my muscles are too weak to fight. My sight fades.
And then, without warning—it all comes rushing back.
The air floods back into my lungs again, sending my head spinning. My vision returns in bits and pieces—flashes of light, blocks of color. I prop myself up on my forearms, just now realizing that I’m lying crumpled face-first on the floor.
I see a flash of black—a splatter of red. The world shifts back into place, pieces all realigning themselves just in time for me to see my parents. Both darting around each other like they’re dancing, so quick that their faces are just a blur. They take turns lunging at the Dullahan, both wielding a dagger in each hand. Fighting together as one.
They should have been deadly together—that much is easy to see. But each time one closes in, they’re faced with nothing but a cloud of dust. My mother whirls, blades slicing through the air, once again hitting nothing. Dad crouches down into a defensive position, ready to strike. But behind his back, darkness materializes. It rises up in a swirling vortex from the floor, misty particles all solidifying to form a single headless shape. It raises its blade.
I want to shout out. To help. But I still can’t move, can’t speak. I can barely breathe.
The sword swings down through the air. My mother lets out a shriek that seems to make the very walls around us rattle.
And then, a flood of bright red as the blade plunges deep into my father’s gut.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the Blood
No.
I crawl forward, dragging myself across the tile, dagger still clutched in my hand. I can feel the lactic acid draining from my veins with each passing second. Feel the adrenaline returning in full force. I just got my parents back. I can’t let them die again.
I struggle to my feet. When I shout for the Dullahan, it comes out as more of a slur than anything else. I sound like an angry drunk. To be honest, I kind of feel like an angry drunk. Sore. Weak. Confused. But above all, enraged.
I take staggering steps forward, shouting again. My mother has herself thrown over my father, knives out and teeth bared as he groans underneath her. The Dullahan ignores me, advancing on the two of them. I try to speed my steps, seeming to trip over every slight dip and crag in the flagstones beneath my feet. There’s no way I’ll make it in time. My father is going to die.
I can’t fucking do this alone. It was stupid to have ever thought I could. How many people has my own damn hubris killed at this point? I straight-up deserve to have my wings burned. Crisped. Sold to a group of drunk college kids, shitty beer included.
I really, really hate having to admit that Castor was right.
Almost as if on cue, I see that familiar brown mop hurtling in from the sidelines, making a beeline for my parents. Castor looks even worse than I do—handsome face bruised beyond recognition, one eye swollen shut, a deep gash on his lip gushing blood—but he doesn’t slow down even a fraction as he throws himself into the Dullahan. For once, the creature is caught off-guard. He tackles it to the ground, stabbing downward in one sharp motion, knife aimed at the thing’s face.
It glances off of its cheek, sending a spray of thick black blood spurting out across the floor. With a wail the creature shoves him with all its might, sending Castor flying and skidding across the floor. When he manages to heave himself back up, the Dullahan is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Seamus. In fact, the whole hall is empty save for the whirlwind of bodies strewn across the floor, Slayborn and Unseelie alike, all tangled up together like a giant funnel cake.
Some are still groaning, writhing—but for the most part, they lie still. My father is coughing, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as my mom bandages his abdomen with rapt determination. Castor paces the room, head whipping around like the Dullahan might suddenly rematerialize.
He’s nothing compared to Gentry, though. His eyes are bright, his lips pulled back into a snarl. Unhinged. Untethered. His fists are curled around two massive swords—one I recognize instantly as his, but the other has a pale, ivory handle and a glinting obsidian blade. Dullahan.
Without a word—without even glancing our way—Gentry sprints from the room, bolting out the open door where Seamus had stood not ten minutes earlier. No guards. No obvious plan. Just him against the world, apparently.
He’s just as big an idiot as I am.
I glance down at my father, the blood streaming from his gut finally staunched. And then, I catch my mother’s eye. She looks older. Weary. Tears shimmer in her eyes, but don’t fall; she clutches dad’s body tight against her. She gives me just the slightest nod before dropping her gaze.
I spare one last glance at Castor—blood caked across his face, armor torn to shreds, lips drawn into a harsh no—and then run from the room.
Nobody can win this war alone. Not even the Underking himself.
I can hear the echo of his boots slamming through the corridors, ricocheting every which way so that it’s nearly impossible to tell which direction he’s going. I veer to the left and pause, waiting; the steps are definitely closer now. I hurtle down the hallway, near blind in the darkness around me.
Even so, I’ve been living in the Unseelie Court long enough to recognize the landmarks around me. The uneven staircase, the missing stone in the wall. The distinct scent of baked goods. Gentry is heading to the dungeons. Women, children, the frail and elderly. His people.
With a muttered swear I hurry my step. Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Of course that’s the first thing the Saemus would do after murdering our army. Root out the innocents. Seek and destroy. Wipe every last trace of Unseelie off the map.
I keep following the sound of footsteps, but they’re growing fainter. I doubt I’m faster than Gentry on my best day, let alone right now. Limping. Battered. Exhausted. But still standing, which is more than Seamus will be able to say by the time I’m through with that fucker.
Only, I don’t know this place nearly as well as I think I do. Somewhere I make a wrong turn, and I end up standing in front of a familiar scene. Gnarled tree branches bursting with emerald green, thick, dew-laden blades of grass softening the ground beneath my feet. Except now, instead of a clear sky overhead, the entire garden is shrouded in a choking mist. The trees almost seem to draw in on themselves, the flowers retreating into their buds.
And there in the center stands the statue of Clíodhna, barely visible through the fog—poised, motionless. Marble head held high. But as I step closer, I start to realize—there is no head. The statue turns to face me. Takes a step from her pedestal. Takes another step, the fog clearing around her feet. Around the ragged black hem of her robe.
Dullahan.
It comes lurching out of the mist, and I have to drop down into a tumble to avoid its bony body slamming into mine. When I stand again, knife in hand, the bastard is gone.
“Come out, you headless fucker!” I shriek into thin air. The only response I get is the nervous tremble of leaves around me. “What, are you missing your guts, too?”
A rush of black flits by me, knocking me onto my back. The knife falls from my hand and disappears into the grass. I grope around for it, desperate, but it’s nowhere to be found. A hiss from above me has my head whipping around, and I see the Dullahan standing there,
holding my dagger between a bony thumb and forefinger. Wiggling it to and fro. Taunting me. Like I don’t have another ready to go.
I draw my other blade and lunge in one smooth movement, but once again, there’s nothing in front of me. Not until another flash of darkness sweeps my feet out from under me, ripping the second dagger from my grip. I scramble up against a tree, looking around wildly, every moving shadow sending warning alarms ringing through my brain.
And then, without warning, I cry out as I feel a blade sink itself into my shoulder. When I look down, I recognize the hilt—that’s my goddamn blade. Even though I know it’s a bad idea I yank it out of myself, trying to ignore the blinding pain as I take aim with my other hand. The knife goes sailing through the air, straight for the Dullahan’s face. The only thing it hits is dark mist before embedding itself deep in the far tree trunk.
I’m shaking so hard it’s a wonder I’m still on my feet. I limp past the statue of Clíodhna, the stifling mist around me congealing and clotting into droplets like rain. They stream down the statue’s face in thick rivulets, pounding in a furious pattern against the canopy of leaves overhead. I welcome the cold torrents, which soak my hair and pour off of my armor.
Scanning the garden, all I see are trees laden with tumbling flowers, willows bent like hags, the roaring waterfall collecting in puddles beneath my feet. But there’s no one here. This time, I really am alone.
Always fucking alone.
Then—shink! I gasp, bewildered, as a form lunges from a pool of shadows lurking at the base of Clíodhna’s statue. I see the unforgiving glint of my knife, steel and silver, just as it jams between my breastplates. It plunges into my flesh, the hilt held tight by a shadowy, smoky hand.
There’s a hiss—sharp, gloating— and then the form has splashed back into the darkness. The moment the icy black steel leaves my skin, blood sprays from between the plates of my armor. Nausea roils within me at the sight of it, and I stagger away from the shadows as fast I can manage without collapsing.
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