13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Marcos set off with Gray and Anya towards the east, with Marthe leading another contingent to the south, intending to search through several nearby villages, hoping to ascertain if any other strange occurrences had happened, and also to potentially discover where the sorcerers were hiding.

Evander found himself at a loose end, and after an hour or two in his study, unable to concentrate on other matters of state that had gathered on his desk during his absence, he got up and went to find Rory. Unsurprisingly, he found him in the first place he checked: the library.

"I thought I might find you here," he said as he entered. Rory glanced up. He had a streak of ink on his cheek, and a massive pile of ancient texts surrounded him.

This was the scholar Rory who had nearly let his aunt, the vicious sorceress Sabrina, usurp his kingdom, because he'd been too lost in books.

He'd become more involved in the running of the kingdom since taking the throne, but Evander knew that this place was still where Rory felt the most at ease.

"I thought I might dig through some of our oldest volumes, see if I can find any references to Guardians or Death as a figure," Rory explained. He paused. "It is still very odd to see you like that, like . . ."

"Like?" Evander questioned, taking a seat as Rory trailed off.

"Like Evrard, but as a person. That is what you remind me of. Is that why you took the form of a unicorn?"

"I took the form of a unicorn because it was unusual and magical and also because it reminded me of purity, of innocence," Evander said wryly. "I was quite bitter in those days about my Guardianship."

"And you are not still?" Rory questioned, though Evander had a feeling he had already discovered the answer to that question.

Evander shrugged. "With so many hundreds of years passed since my banishment, and since my powers have been lately restored, I find I'm less interested in vengeance, and more eager for justice."

"And since you grew closer to Merleen," Rory teased. "Or I suppose he is Marcos now. The Guardian of War."

"You would not question his capabilities if you saw him in action."

"Oh?" Rory raised an eyebrow. "And I'm assuming you have?"

"We've known each other a very long time," Evander said. Hoping that Rory would leave it at that. Yet knowing that he wouldn't.

Rory could be a dog with a bone; impossibly stubborn, sometimes; even more stubborn than Gray, and that was saying something.

So many other young men would have fled to safety, and never tried to return to claim their kingdom. But not Rory. He'd acknowledged his mistakes and worked hard to fix them.

When he'd been born, to parents who'd loved him—parents Evander hadn't been able to save—Evander had cherished high hopes for the young prince.

But back then, he'd been occupied in the valley, making sure that no harm befell Gray. Sabrina would never have been emboldened enough to kill Prince Emory of Fontaine, but Gray? She'd have gone after him in a heartbeat. And Evander had known that he needed both of them to defeat her, so he'd watched and waited and hoped.

On first acquaintance, Rory had just seemed like a very pretty, slightly spoilt child.

But he'd proven himself, over and over again, and then morphed into the kind of man and the kind of king—and the kind of partner and husband—that even Evander could approve of.

Through it all, he'd always possessed such a fierce intelligence, and Evander could feel it turning on him now. Considering him. Considering Marcos.

"Gray doesn't trust him," Rory said conversationally. "Yet it seems you do."

"He said that?" Evander was surprised. Gray trusted him, and he'd made it abundantly clear yesterday that he trusted Marcos.

"According to you two, he's the Guardian of War," Rory said. "Of course Gray doesn't trust him. He doesn't want war brought to our kingdom."

"War is such a general term," Evander said, discovering he felt it entirely necessary to defend Marcos. Especially when he wasn't here to defend himself. "He's a brilliant fighter, but he also has spent thousands of years studying tactics, and supply lines, and can lead an army like he was born to do it, because he was."

"And you think that doesn't sound worrisome to Gray," Rory said wryly, setting his elbow on the table, and resting his chin in his palm.

Evander was shocked, and he was rarely shocked. "Gray thinks he wants to usurp his kingdom? Marcos, really?"

"We don't know him. Sometimes . . ." Rory hesitated. "Sometimes it feels like we barely know you. It's good to be cautious. After all, you raised him to be."

Rory's words echoed Marcos' from last night.

You raised him to guard himself and to question everything.

He had, because it had felt like the only way to protect a young, inquisitive boy who'd just been ripped away from everything he'd ever known. If he was annoyed at Gray's mistrust now, it was his own fault, for planting the seed.

"I did," Evander grudgingly admitted. "But I hope that today, while they are out checking on the villages, Gray will begin to learn that Marcos is who he says he is. No more and no less. He wants no kingdom for his own."

"And neither do you," Rory stated.

"All I want is . . . peace. No kingdoms. No wars. No battles. No conquering heroes. Just peace." It seemed silly to admit, when he'd had it here, at Beaulieu, before Vanya had called him, and he'd hated every minute of it. But now? The idea of it felt so very different. Or maybe he was different.

"Then peace we shall have," Rory said. He pushed an open book towards Evander. "I did find a handful of references," he said, pointing to a passage in a volume so old that Evander could barely make out the lettering. "It refers to Death, coming on its black steed, to conquer the people."

Evander checked the bound leather cover and its binding. It was old, cracking and crumbling, but he recognized the symbols right away. "This is from Ardglass."

"Long before Ardglass was Ardglass," Rory confirmed. "When it was just a loose grouping of tribes."

Evander considered mentioning that Marcos had once been a leader of one of those tribes, and had fought in one of their more important battles, but that would give Rory the wrong idea when he was already unsure if Marcos was trustworthy.

He skimmed the passage once, and then twice, and then a third time. "You are an expert on languages," he said to Rory, "are you sure the author is not merely being descriptive? Death on a dark steed?"

"You should be familiar with Ardglassian texts of this time period," Rory said. "The adversarial atmosphere, the constant fighting between the tribes, it did not lend itself to particularly florid language. They were pragmatists."

"Ardglassians have always been pragmatists," Evander said frankly, and Rory shot him a grin.

"No one knows it better than me," Rory said lightly. "But no, I don't think the author was being metaphorical. I believe Death, in fact, came, and Death rode a black horse."

"It could be Deimos, but the passage tells us nothing else."

"Yes, it does," Rory said, carefully flipping several pages of nearly transparent parchment. "The story continues here. Death rode a dark steed," he read, "and went to the highest reaches, seducing some women and some men away from their true path, bending them to his own merciless purpose."

"You think this describes how he assisted and created the first sect of sorcerers," Evander said thoughtfully. "The timing is . . . well, it is not quite right, there were one or two of them on the surface before this. This happened, I believe, after I was banished, but . . ."

"But?" Rory prompted.

The conclusion filled Evander with dread. "This is when I started taking a more active role in defeating the sorcerers. I left the valley. I refocused my purpose. I think he knew I could eradicate one or two easily enough. Especially if they did not work together. But as soon as I began to seek them out, there were always more, new generations cropping up, knowledge passed down. Every time I felt like I had conquered them, they sprouted in a different spot."

"You think he started adding to their numbers, and the passage refers to that."

Evander nodded gravely, and he was sure that Rory's expression matched his own.

"And you think he's done it again," Rory said, frowning.

"Sabrina was unique," Evander pointed out, tapping a finger on the text in question, "she was not like the others I faced, who did tend to huddle in groups because their power was greater that way. But she never wanted to share, and she was extraordinarily powerful on her own, so she wouldn't."

"But what about Aplin and Rinaldi. They were her followers, right?"

"In the roughest sense of the word, yes. But she didn't share with them. Not really. Not while she was alive. My guess is they were her lackeys. Her spies in this court. But it was only when she died and Aplin ransacked her lair that they gained some of the power. Not Rinaldi, he was useless. But Aplin, yes."

"And then Gray killed him." Rory smiled. "You should have told me that you were the one who forged Lion's Breath."

Evander laughed. "Tell you I'd been around, hundreds of years ago, and created this sword not for your ancestors but for you? For Gray? And a unicorn forging a sword? Would you have even believed it?"

"I suppose that would've created more questions than you could answer," Rory admitted with a smile. "And no, probably not."

"Gray wouldn't have believed me," Evander grumbled, "and he was already difficult enough by that point."

"Actually, I think he would have. I think Gray's always known there's things you didn't share, couldn't share," Rory said contemplatively.

"And he held that against me." Evander chuckled under his breath. He knew how frustrated Gray had been with him at times. How he'd retreated into his work and his everyday life in the valley, hoping for some kind of peace.

Then Rory had upended all of it by venturing into the valley, on the run, and in danger.

"Perhaps." Rory was still grinning, but then his expression grew more solemn. "But I think Gray trusts you and your judgment more than you realize."

"I suppose we'll see," Evander said.

Marcos had insisted they take him to every village in their sector where something strange had occurred.

But as they toured the villages, Marcos closely attuned for anything that felt out of place, or anything that smelled of Deimos' power, they'd come up empty.

Nothing out of place. Nothing that gave him that uneasy prickling feeling at the back of his neck.

"Maybe," Gray said as they mounted their horses after Marcos finished talking to some of the villagers at the last location, "we should have brought Evrard with us."

"Evander," Marcos corrected before he could think it through.

Gray shot him a long, contemplative look. "It's hard to remember," he said by way of explanation. "I knew him by a different name for a long time. It was hard to even remember to call him Rhys, and now he shows up and he's something different again."

"Perhaps his form has changed," Marcos said, "but I think if you give Evander a chance, you'll recognize Rhys and Evrard in him. He might look different, but in my experience, he's always been uniquely himself."

Gray swung his leg over his horse, pulling himself up effortlessly. He wore Lion's Breath in a scabbard strapped to his back.

Marcos' fingers had itched from the moment he'd seen it to hold it in his hands, to wield it, even in practice.

He'd known, of course, that Evander had, at one time, forged a sword. But he'd never gotten close enough to see it. To touch it.

But he could feel Gray's hesitation. He was holding back. Unsure of his purpose—and Marcos couldn't blame him. He was a powerful Guardian. It was why he'd never come to the surface in his own guise before. It created too much uneasiness, too much distrust.

"What should we do now?" Anya asked, as she mounted her own horse.

He'd known Ardglassian women like her before, shield maidens who could fight just as competently as their brothers, but there was a singular fierceness to her gaze that he found himself appreciating.

He would be honored to fight by her side, if it came to that.

And, he thought morosely, it likely would.

He could already feel the forces coalescing, clashing, the inevitability swirling around him that they would do battle on one of these fields, next to one of these villages.

He hadn't told Evander yet, but he would.

Soon.

"Let's see the charred spot those villagers mentioned," Marcos suggested. "I might be able to sense our enemies from the magic expended there."

"You can do that?" She sounded fascinated as they left the village at a trot. She had some of Gray's distrust, which he knew to be an Ardglassian trait—they were slow to trust, but once you'd gained their loyalty, you never lost it—but she was also interested in his skills, and what he could teach her.

She hadn't said it specifically yet, but he already knew he'd pass what he knew on to her. On to Gray, if he could reconcile himself to the possibility.

Marcos nodded. "I don't sense power as well as Evander does, but my tracking is second to none. If I can scent the sorcerers there, I can try to track them."

"That's amazing." Anya sounded impressed. "Isn't that amazing, Gray?"

Gray shrugged, clearly less impressed. "I've known many excellent trackers," he grumbled.

"But none of them could track magic," Anya reminded him.

Gray grumbled again, under his breath, and even with his enhanced senses, Marcos couldn't quite make him out over the sound of the horses' hooves against the packed dirt of the road.

But Marcos didn't need to hear him to understand what he'd meant.

He didn't trust him.

Didn't want to trust him.

Which was going to make all of this harder.

"The villagers said it was just past this field," Anya said, pointing and nudging her horse in the same direction. "They said it was hard to miss."

Indeed, when they came over the ridge of one field, and started down the slight hill to the next, the flattened, charred wheat stood out like a sore thumb.

"What a waste," Gray said as they approached it.

"Let's leave our horses here," Marcos ordered, stopping a good distance away from the mark in the field.

"Really? Why?" Gray asked. Not challenging him, not exactly, but the insinuation was there.

This is his kingdom, and he has the right to protect it however he feels is fit, Marcos reminded himself. It would have been so much easier to be here as Merleen, whom Gray had felt a kinship and a loyalty to, who'd been his friend.

Instead, Gray had discovered that Merleen had been a figment of his imagination, and had never truly existed at all.

Not the best way to begin a partnership.

"There could be much residual magic in that mark," Marcos cautioned. "I do not know how the horses will react to it."

"They can sense it?" Anya asked.

"Animals are often more sensitive than we are," Marcos said, smoothing the mane of his horse as he dismounted, tying the reins to a nearby bale of hay.

He turned towards the mark.

Behind him, he could sense Anya and Gray also dismounting. He heard Gray pull Lion's Breath from its sheath and he could smell the steel of Anya's long knife as she pulled it from one of her brown leather boots.

He held up a hand as they grew closer.

"Let me look at it first," Marcos said.

"No."

He looked back and Gray was staring at him, his blue eyes hard as stones.

"I know you don't trust me . . ." Marcos began, but Gray interrupted him.

"It is my mandate to protect this kingdom," Gray said, "and no, I do not trust you. You're the so-called Guardian of War. How do I know you have not lured us here to kill us both? You could do it easily."

"With my bare hands," Marcos said calmly. He could imagine Evander snorting, unimpressed by his tactics, but he knew Gray. Understood him. He wouldn't trust him until he had the whole truth. Deception and partial truths would only prolong his misgivings, and since Marcos did not know how much time they had before hell descended on them, it was important to settle this now.

"See?" Gray drawled. "My concern is hardly misplaced."

"Gray," Anya said, trying to reason with him, "he's Merleen. He isn't going to do anything."

"Yes, he came to my court and he lied about who he was, and what his purpose was." Gray's tone was still implacable.

"I'm not lying now. It would be easier if I told you a whole lot of conveniently reassuring lies. But I will not. Yes, I am powerful. I, however, am not remotely as powerful as Deimos, who will descend here in what could be days or could be months or years. I don't know. But I do know we need to be prepared, and we need to learn everything we can before he arrives."

"Somehow, I doubt that's true," Gray said wryly.

"What, that Deimos will arrive . . ."

But Gray cut him off before he could expound further on the subject.

"No," Gray said firmly. "No, that you are not as powerful as Deimos."

Marcos narrowed his gaze. He had known Gray since arriving at Beaulieu. They'd become friendly, when he'd been disguised as Merleen. Marcos rarely underestimated people he didn't know. And he knew Gray.

Still, he'd underestimated him.

"You are confident," Gray said. "Not the over-confidence of someone who is over-matched and knows it and believes they will succeed in defeating their enemies, anyway. But true confidence."

"And," Anya added, shooting him a wry smile, "you said you have been away from your Conclave for years, many hundreds of years. Surely if Deimos could have made you come back, he would have." She arched an eyebrow. "You intimidate him."

"And yet that does not make him any less of a threat," Marcos said.

"No, it makes you a threat." Gray's voice was hard as steel.

Marcos gestured to where Gray held Lion's Breath.

"That sword," he said, "contains the fire magic of a Guardian. It won't kill me. But it will slow me down, and leave me in a state where I would be less of a threat to you. If I was a threat to you."

Gray relaxed a fraction. Marcos saw it and knew he'd said the right thing.

"You think by telling me the truth, you'll win my trust," Gray said.

"I think it's a start," Marcos admitted. "Now, I only suggest you stay back, a little ways behind me, because I don't know what kind of power lies in this field, and Evander would skin me slowly if he discovered that I'd brought any harm to you."

Amusement tweaked the side of Gray's mouth up. "You think he could? Skin you alive?"

Marcos shot Gray a frank look. "Evander could do anything to me, and if I knew I deserved it, I would let him."

"Don't you know," Anya hissed to Gray, under her breath, "they're sharing quarters."

That brought a full smile to Gray's face. "What's it like, being with a manipulative shapeshifter?"

Marcos hesitated. "As difficult and challenging as you'd expect."

This time Gray laughed, gesturing with Lion's Breath. "I don't necessarily trust you yet, but I do think I like you."

"Well, that's a start," Marcos said, and turned to head towards the scorched earth.

As he got closer, he heard Gray behind him. A proper distance back, as he'd suggested, but Marcos still heard him loud and clear as he said, "It would take a brave man to take on Evrard as a romantic partner."

"Luckily for him, and for me, I'm rather renowned for my bravery in the face of danger," Marcos said with a chuckle.

Then he turned his attention to the mark.

The wheat all around it had been flattened, like a windstorm had crushed the stalks, radiating around the charred circle in a spreading arc of destruction.

The closer he came, the heavier the residual magic in the air felt, like it was pressing into him. His fingertips tingled with it, and he could nearly taste it on his tongue.

He pulled a smaller knife from his belt, even though the field was empty except for the three of them. Just having it in his hand was reassuring. It would take a long time for this knife to replace the one he'd given to Evander as his favorite, but in a pinch, he never doubted that he could do some serious damage with it.

"What is it?" Gray asked, concern in his voice.

It took Marcos a second to realize that he'd only asked because Marcos had drawn a weapon.

He gripped the knife harder. "There was someone very strong here. Or several sorcerers of significant power. I can feel it in the air."

"I can feel it too," Gray said quietly. "Like it's a dark, greasy cloud, floating in the air, except that I can't see it."

Marcos nodded. "You might be more sensitive because of the sword. I'd guess that some of its power transferred into you. Considering what you were able to do without it."

"Makes sense," Gray acknowledged. "Do you know what they did here?"

Marcos dropped down to his haunches, leaning in closer to the charred circle. He didn't want to get too close. Dark magic, even its remnants, could be seductive, tricky, and could grab one by the throat.

Evander had murmured a warning before they'd left today, and Marcos hadn't needed it to be cautious. But it had served as a good reminder.

As he leaned in closer, he saw what could be the remains of a skeleton of a small animal. Burned. Burned to almost nothing.

He knew if he touched the bones, he'd feel it, but that they'd also likely crumble in his hands. Whatever fire that had done this had been very hot.

And contained.

The circle was only a few yards wide.

"I believe it was a sacrifice of some kind to bolster their power, though it could have been to practice, too."

"Practice?" Anya sounded disgusted. "They burned lambs for practice?"

"Most people are not good or evil, they're merely surviving, day to day. Black magic like this, dark as pitch, it takes time to take over a person. Creeps over them slowly. Sabrina didn't start the way she ended up. It's not easy to take your power and condense it into flame and then fling it at someone with the intent of roasting them to a crisp."

"So you think they can be saved?" Gray sounded hopeful.

Marcos hated to destroy that hope, but it was better to be realistic.

He shook his head. "No. Once the darkness takes a corner of their heart, they're lost." He stood and looked over at Gray. "We need to find them."

Gray gestured towards the charred circle. "Then tell us where to find them."

Marcos closed his eyes, focusing his power. Focusing on the slimy dark power of the magic, even though it made him want to retch.

There was something awful about Deimos that had always made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, but this was so much worse, condensed the way it was. And, in addition, there was no telling how much darker Deimos had grown since the last time they'd faced each other.

The trail led away from the field. Marcos followed it on foot, and Gray and Anya followed him, without protesting or saying a word. He hoped that meant that maybe Gray was slowly beginning to trust him more, but Marcos had a feeling that he wouldn't learn if the other man could be depended on til the moment he needed to.

Evander raised him, and he did right by him. What you need is to trust him. Not Gray. Him.

He kept walking in silence, following the trail. It didn't vary or waver, and it was as easy as following a string, which made him uneasy.

Power of this magnitude wasn't usually all this steady. It fluctuated. He knew that much from witnessing Evander's own, over the years, and all the other Guardians he'd lived with.

Power could flicker. This power did not flicker. It never flinched.

They'd crossed one field, and were halfway through the next, when he abruptly stopped, holding up a fist.

"What is it?" Gray came up to him.

Marcos eyed the edge of the foothills that bordered the edge of the field they were in.

"He thinks it's a trap," Anya said, coming up on Marcos' other side and answering for him.

"How do you know?" Marcos had barely figured it out, and he was the best at what he did.

Anya shot him a knowing look. "You have this terribly suspicious look on your face, like something didn't smell right."

"Something doesn't smell right," Gray muttered. "It makes me want to vomit."

"That's the black magic," Marcos explained. "But Anya is right, I think it might be a trap. The trail is . . . unnatural. Not quite right. A little too easy to follow."

Gray looked out at the foothills. Marcos would imagine there could be caves in those rolling hills. Quite a few excellent places to hide.

Quite a few excellent places to stage a trap.

It was exactly what he would have done.

"What should we do?" Gray asked finally.

Marcos had been trying to decide. It was very likely a trap, but knowing about it could diffuse much of the danger, and it seemed a waste to not spring it, when they could learn something about whoever had set it.

It would be safest for him to spring it on his own.

No chance for harm to come to either Gray or Anya, because surely that had to be the goal. No sorcerer, no matter how powerful, could be a match for Marcos. But Gray? Taking out one of the leaders of this kingdom, the one who wielded some power and a magical sword?

That would be the goal.

"You know that we have to explore the trap," Marcos said steadily, staring out at where the danger no doubt awaited them, "but I also know that it was not designed for me."

"You think it was meant for me." Gray's voice was surprisingly steady. Marcos gave Evander credit for instilling in him the ability to face things, even difficult things, head-on.

I didn't do much, he was already like this. Marcos could practically hear Evander's voice in his head, reminding him of the truth.

And it seemed likely that it was the truth.

"I do," Marcos said, deciding that it was better to stick to blunt, brutal honesty. "On one hand, it seems prudent to leave you here. You can defend yourselves, if trouble comes up from behind. And you won't be in the line of fire for whatever trap has been set."

"But?"

Marcos chuckled dryly. "How do you know there's a but?"

"If there wasn't, you wouldn't have discussed it. You'd have ordered me to stay here, and gone off alone, already," Gray pointed out.

"I believe there is safety in numbers, and if I was laying a very smart trap, I would count on myself hoping to protect the king by leaving him behind."

"You think the trap is actually here," Gray mused. "That would be smart."

"Yes, occupy me while the rest converge on you," Marcos said.

"And it would have been such a good trap, too."

Marcos whirled around at the strange, strangled voice coming from behind him.

A woman stood there, several hundred feet back, and she wasn't balancing flame on her hand, the way Evander did. No, it was consuming her hand, consuming her arm, flickering almost all the way to her shoulder.

She had power, then. But she could not truly control it, because it was a Guardian's power and it was too much for her to bear.

That's more dangerous, Evander whispered in his ear. She's volatile, because of it.

"Gray," Anya hissed under her breath. "Get behind me."

"No," Gray said in a hard voice.

With that refusal to yield, even for his own protection, Gray rose another few notches in Marcos' estimation.

Instead of hiding behind Anya, Gray walked up right next to Marcos.

Marcos drew his sword. He doubted he could get close enough to cut her down, she was too unsteady, the flame flickering all around her in a whirlwind.

Wind.

If she had been the one to set the initial trap, that must have been how she'd kept it contained. Someone else had brought wind . . .

Gael.

Marcos pushed the thought away and raised his sword just in time. The long steel length of it glowed blue with his protective magic, deflecting the fireball the sorceress flung in their direction.

It fell to the turf, flames smoldering in the grass.

Gray glanced over at him. "That's a nifty trick," he said conversationally, like there wasn't a crazed sorceress who had just tossed fire in their direction.

Marcos raised his arm and a flickering blue light arced around them, protecting him and Gray, and Anya, too, even though she was further back.

"You know this will not succeed," he called out to the sorceress. "They would have told you why the trap was necessary."

"Because you were too powerful?" she sneered. "I don't believe it."

"You should," Marcos said steadily, and carefully, deliberately, he stepped around the fire in the grass, watching out of the corner of his eye as Gray stamped it out with his boots. One step at a time he began to advance on her, deliberately, with no sudden movements.

He could have defeated her easily. His shield would have cut through the worst of the fire, and he could have cut her down with his sword where she stood, but her volatility changed things.

She could explode in a ball of flame. Consume everything within leagues of them. Including Gray, Anya, and the village.

Fire magic was dangerous, but especially dangerous for a human, who couldn't hope to contain it.

There'd been a man once, who'd tried to hold the fire and he'd ended up destroying a whole part of the Northern Reach of Ardglass. Marcos had only survived because he was too hard to kill. But he'd walked among the smoldering ruins of too many good men that day, and he wasn't going to let it happen again.

"Don't come any closer," she yelled, the fire around her flashing red, then orange, then blue, and then violet as the heat of it overwhelmed her. "I'll melt you!"

"No, you won't," Marcos said inexorably, and he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until he was only a few feet from her. He could see the crazed look in her eyes, the fire beginning to eat at the skin of her arm, the pain and realization blossoming in her expression.

Quickly, Evander whispered in his ear. Do it quickly.

She pushed out with a wall of flame, much as Evander had with Vanya, but hers was not nearly as powerful, because she was losing control.

"Watch out!" Anya called out as he braced himself and his shield for the flame to hit him. It shook around him, and the hilt of his sword grew warm, the symbols etched onto the flat blade pulsing with protective magic, but his protection held.

Adjusting his grip, Marcos stepped suddenly, with all his unnatural speed and agility, to the left, and swung the sword, trailing its bluish-white magic.

His blow hit true, and a breath later, her head rolled towards his feet, the fire extinguished as suddenly as it had come to life.

He stared down at her partially charred body, and the only thought besides pure, unadulterated rage was that Deimos had much to answer for, and he would be honored to be the one to exact it from him, one blow at a time.

"You killed her."

Marcos looked up to see Gray staring at the body, lips pressed hard together, Anya coming up behind him.

"She was lost," he said succinctly. "The fire was already consuming her. She didn't have control of it. Too powerful."

Gray glanced up at him. "Will that happen to me?" He gestured towards his sword, where he held it in his other hand. "I know this has fire magic. Evrard . . . I mean Evander imbued it with his own fire magic."

"He knew a human was going to be wielding it," Marcos said. "He wouldn't have ever given it too much, given you too much." He heard his own voice turn hard, unrelenting. Unyielding. "Someone gave this woman too much power. Knew it was too much power. But did not care."

"They should pay for this," Anya said, her teeth clenched as she stared down at the remains of the woman. "They used her, didn't they?"

Marcos nodded, watching as Anya's fist clenched tighter on her knife, knuckles turning white, face etched with fury.

"Tell me that we can make them pay, for taking one of my countrywomen and turning her into this," Gray said.

"Yes," Marco said. "We will make them pay."