15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

The morning dawned clear and cold, a wash of red across the horizon as the sun rose.

Evander watched as Marcos eyed it with a grim expression, his lips in a tight line. "There will be blood today," he said.

"Yes," Gray said vehemently, as he rode up next to him. "The blood of our enemies."

"I would ask if you were always this courageous, but I already know the answer to that. You faced down Sabrina as a twelve-year-old boy, with a knife and a horse, and nothing else, and afterwards, begged to go back and finish her," Evander said lightly as they rode out of the gate, followed by Marthe and her guard, Rory, and a handful of other fighters that Marthe and Marcos had selected personally.

He'd been surprised, at first, that Marcos hadn't wanted to take the entire army. "Why?" he'd asked. "So Deimos can cut them all down without blinking? No, we cannot approach this like a conventional attack. We need to be smarter, think smarter. Not necessarily outsmart him, because he thinks he is smarter than anyone else, but perhaps by sticking to our strengths, we can outmaneuver him."

The plan had actually turned out to be fairly simple, simpler than Evander had anticipated, but he hoped that at the very least, it would catch Deimos and his followers off guard.

With Evander in the attack force, Deimos would be anticipating a convoluted battle plan, but instead, Marcos had insisted on keeping it straightforward.

"It's easy to be brave when you're young," Gray said. "Harder when you grow up."

Evander watched as he exchanged glances with Rory. "Which," Rory said wryly, "only makes you sound more impressive."

He knew that Gray hadn't wanted Rory to accompany them—because he'd been very adamantly and vocally opposed to it from the first moment when Rory had declared that he wouldn't be left behind.

But Rory was riding with them today, despite Gray's feelings, and even Evander's argument that he should remain behind, in case things went catastrophically badly, and he was the only one left to rule Fontaine. "What would I rule, then," Rory had asked bitterly, "if everyone is dead and Deimos' poison is spreading across my land and my people? This is our battle, the only one that matters, and I will stand with those who fight for Fontaine."

Rory was right; this was the battle for the future of the surface. If they lost today, it would only be a matter of time before Deimos and his sorcerers spread across the lands, destroying and subverting the humans. Death would rule.

Then we will make sure it does not.

Evander glanced up and found Marcos looking at him intently.

Neither of them had powers of telepathy; in fact, Evander had never heard of any of the Guardians possessing that particular power, but perhaps . . . perhaps the Mother had seen their connection, had felt it, and had opened up their minds.

It's you, isn't it? Evander thought, sending the question as hard as he could towards Marcos.

Marcos inclined his head, the corner of his lips curving into a smile. Yes, he responded, perhaps another special gift of the Mother's?

It was just like the Mother not to ask if they wanted to be able to speak to each other in their minds, but merely to gift the power.

Can you read my mind, too? Evander wondered.

Marcos' answer was swift. No, I think it needs not only purpose to work, but also emotion—I felt it the other day, when Deimos tried to trap me, I could hear your voice in my head. And just now? I saw the expression on your face when you looked at Rory. He will be fine. Acadia and Rowen will be guarding him especially, and he's been training. He's not the useless princeling you once took under your wing.

No, he was not.

Evander glanced over at Rory and saw the hard resolution on his face, the courage in his eyes, in every line of his figure as they rode towards the caves where Marcos had determined that Deimos and his followers were hiding.

He was no longer a silly prince, he was a king.

It was not a long ride to the caves. They lay only an hour or so from Beaulieu, which Evander was convinced was purposeful. There were plenty of villages scattered within an easy ride of the castle, and for Deimos that meant plenty of humans around he could bend to his will. Plenty of humans he could infect with too much power.

He'd been more restrained before, not giving the humans more than they could handle, but now he cared so little for their lives, for their fate, he was turning them into bombs.

The caves, Evander projected towards Marcos as they rode closer, they will be full. Deimos will meet our small force with a much larger one.

Marcos' glance was reassuring. We knew that, he pointed out, we always knew he would do whatever he could to defeat us, even if that included conscripting many villagers who couldn't hope to contain the power he gives them.

Marcos was right, but it made Evander uneasy, all the same.

Trust me, stick to the plan, Marcos thought, his voice a reassuring balm to nerves about the fight to come. You can do this.

Evander heard the confidence in his voice, the undeniable love, and raised his chin. He would do it, because the alternative was Death.

Marcos led them through fields, past the burned circle, and then across another field, and suddenly, there were the caves, rising in front of them.

There appeared to be nobody present in them, nothing visible, but Evander could feel the darkness residing in them.

"He is here," Marcos said, echoing what Evander also believed. "He may not be expecting us, but he is anticipating us, all the same."

Gray nodded, and dismounted. They left the horses tied to a large haystack, with Rory, Acadia, and Rowen. They would join the battle, if necessary, but for now their job was to hang back, to protect the king, and to potentially ride for additional assistance if necessary. "Though," Marcos had said with a rough voice during the council session, "if reinforcements are necessary, we can already call the battle lost."

"Not if we can get Rory away unscathed," Gray had insisted.

Evander didn't know what had ultimately convinced Marcos that Gray's addition to the plan was necessary, but it might have been the gray-blue steel of his gaze.

You taught him well, Evander told himself firmly. You prepared him for this, as best you could.

Marcos turned to him as they dismounted. "Are you ready?" he asked, drawing a knife from his boot as Evander pulled the knife Marcos had forged for him from a sheath Gray had found in the armory.

"Yes," Evander said, hearing the certainty in his own voice and letting it bolster his courage, his determination. His part in the plan was not the most vital, but it was still critical that he played it perfectly.

It might mean the safety of the rest of them, vulnerably arrayed in this field.

"You must be quick," Marcos said, as Evander knew.

They had the element of surprise now, but it would not last long. Though the fields and visible cave entrances were empty now, there was no doubt in Evander's mind that Deimos had ways to detect their arrival.

And once they'd arrived, he'd sense their power, just as surely as they had sensed his.

Evander turned to face the caves, but before he could make the final preparations, a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

He turned, and Marcos squeezed his shoulder, over the worked leather armor that Gray had outfitted him with. "Please," he said. Pleaded. Evander could not remember at any point in the thousands of years that they'd known each other that the other Guardian had begged for anything. "Please, be careful. Do not be reckless. Not when . . ."

Evander watched as Marcos swallowed hard. "Not when?" he prompted.

"Not when I love you so completely, so utterly," Marcos said quietly, but with purpose.

"I love you, too," Evander said, reaching out and touching him once, on the cheek. He let the certainty, the steadfastness, the brightness of Marcos' love wash over him, steady him. Centering his magic, he reached out for the power in the caves, in the empty spaces he sensed, and then he released all of that gathered force, and the next moment later, he blinked his eyes, refocusing them in the dark.

It took only a second for him to take in his surroundings. That was the only danger with projecting, and why he did it so rarely, even before his banishment, because the risk of being caught off guard and not reacting quickly enough to the new environment was significant.

He was in a cave, with such a low ceiling, Marcos would have been forced to duck. It was dark, only a small, smoldering fire on one side, the smoke making it even harder to see clearly. There were half a dozen men and women in the cave, and as they lifted their arms, gazes haunted by the power that had begun to control them, instead of the other way around, Evander lifted his knife, and let his own power flow.

The fire traveled along the length of the knife like he'd been born to wield it, and maybe, considering the Mother and her knowing gaze, perhaps he had.

The woman there, on the right, who ducked his stream of fire, she was struggling to hold the wind, it was already whipping through her hair, little pieces of her flesh disintegrating into the air as she attempted to hold Gael's power.

"How?" he demanded of her, and she only shook her head, mute terror in her eyes.

Ideally, he would have liberated them, released the power they held, but he could sense how deeply it was buried in them. Deimos had created an army of unstable bombs, in the guise of humans, in the guise of Rory and Gray's subjects, and there was nothing he could do, except permanently free them.

Deimos had finally stopped caring about any collateral damage.

He sent another stream of fire towards her, and this time she could not duck it, as she was too busy frantically trying to hold the tail of the wind, and the fire hit her straight in the chest, and she collapsed to the dirt floor of the cave.

Evander was blessed with a Guardian's quickness again, and it had taken but a moment to eliminate the woman with the wind power, and he turned next to the rest, arraying against him on the other side of the cave.

He sent out another stream of fire, pushing them back further, until one man, young enough to be the shepherd that Anya had spoken of, tried to thrust out with fire of his own. It was unsteady, just as Marcos had described it, and Evander only had a second to be haunted by the fear in the young man's eyes as he lost control of it, screaming as it consumed him, and the woman next to him, who must have had fire as well, because hers leaped to join his.

The other three turned to look at him, dead expressions in their eyes.

"Wind and fire," Evander said out loud, hoping to get through to them.

"Enough to cause a conflagration," one middle-aged man said with a sneer. He shrugged as fire poured out of his hand, and the woman next to him waved wildly, whipping it up.

Evander stared at them, horror coalescing into an ugly ball in his stomach. He'd been afraid of just this, when he'd heard Marcos' plan for him to come into the caves first and hopefully eliminate any of the sorcerers that Deimos had seduced to his cause.

But it was even worse than he could have ever anticipated, and he watched for a second longer as their powers escaped their control, the wind suddenly becoming a gale, and the fire turning bright white at the edges, burning all three of them alive before Evander could do anything to help them.

He had only a moment to reach out for the next cave, and then he was there, opening his eyes.

This time they were prepared for him, and this time he had the chance to lead them out of the caves, running between the craggy rocks, fire streaming from his knife, as he lured them to the open field, where it would be safer and easier to kill them.

Though, Evander though with a horrible dry realization, it hadn't been particularly difficult to eliminate them where they stood. They are untried, untested, unprepared. Fodder for Deimos' army.

One woman fell, and Evander almost reached out for her, to steady her, but then he reared back as she shed her skin, writhing along the ground, becoming a massive serpent.

"Hyperion!" Evander called, warning Marcos as he watched the other Guardian brace himself for the fireballs that another of the men was throwing their direction. He batted them away easily with his sword, glowing blue with his protective magic, and then before the serpent could head in Rory's direction, Marcos spun, and raising his sword high over his head, cut the head off the serpent.

"He would be here," Marcos answered, his voice grimly resigned.

"I have a few more caves," Evander said, and then he reached out again for the next, and then the next, and then the next.

He did not see Deimos, but he knew he was there; he could sense him in every shadow, in the vile taste on his tongue, from the way the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

He was here, and he was watching.

Evander reached the final cave, having flushed out several dozen of the sorcerers, leading them to Marcos and his relentless sword.

And this one, it was empty.

Or else, Evander believed it to be empty, and nearly turned to go back to the field, to help Marcos and Gray and the others kill the sorcerers, when a shadowed figure stepped out of the darkness.

"You are on a fool's errand," Deimos spat.

His face, always pale as milk, had grown gaunt and skeletal, cheekbones seemingly carved into the bone.

"You are not exempt from the rules of this universe," Evander said.

"Neither were you, and yet you circumvent them anyway," Deimos retorted, glancing at the knife in his hand. Evander realized Deimos must be referencing how he'd thwarted his punishment and retrieved his power.

It shouldn't have hurt that Vanya had confessed all to Deimos. But the last bit of hope that he might not turn total traitor died in Evander's heart.

"The Mother informed me how to right a wrong," Evander said, lifting his knife, feeling his power surge.

"The Mother?" Deimos threw his head back and laughed, a grotesque caricature of amusement that grated along every one of Evander's nerves. "That old hag? She's always been too weak, too controlled by her feelings for these . . . these . . . humans. Bags of skin and bone and nothing more. Ruled by their emotions, by their instincts. They are not worth the sacrifice you make for them."

Rage billowed alongside the power, strengthening it, buffering it.

"These bags of skin and bone are far more honorable than you have ever been in any year of your miserable, eternal life," Evander ground out. "For that alone, I condemn you to death—a state you have become far too familiar with."

Deimos just laughed again.

"You cannot condemn me," he said, and pushed back, suddenly, with all his dark power, and it sent Evander flying, hitting the wall with a bone-jarring impact.

"You are no match for me, Guardian or no Guardian," Deimos said, advancing as Evander took a breath, steeling his will against the pain, and lifted himself to his feet.

He flung out one fireball and then another, and Deimos brushed them away like they were nothing, like they were petals falling on a bright summer day.

Gathering his breath, he pushed out with the wall of flame—the one that had sent Vanya scurrying, and it did hold Deimos back, who just smiled, devoid of all humor, at Evander's magic.

He pushed forward, and then forward again, waging his own fire magic against Deimos' pitch-black clouds, and he took an inch, and then another inch.

Just when he thought he might be able to force him back, might be able to at least weaken him with the fire, Evander heard a voice behind him.

Calling him.

Entreating him.

"Evander," Vanya said softly, like he was right in his ear.

Evander shook his head, trying to clear the distraction. Trying not to give in to the desire to turn and see his friend.

Or the Guardian who had once been his friend.

You acknowledged it earlier, he reminded himself, there is no hope for him now. He has betrayed you. He has betrayed the Conclave.

"Evander," the voice cajoled again.

He might have imagined it was another trick of Deimos' but he knew it was not.

You are prepared for this. You knew it would come to this.

Evander held out a hand, and the wall of fire wavered, glowing blue and white at the edges, Deimos' dark, fathomless eyes glittering with malice.

With his other hand, he released another stream of fire, and as the power flowed through him, like a raging river, he almost imagined how such a feeling could have seduced Deimos into his unspeakable acts.

"You are clever, but not so clever as that," Vanya said, appearing next to Deimos. "I could almost make you believe."

"Almost," Evander said grimly. "But not enough. I know your heart, and I do not recognize the black lump that beats in your chest now."

"You cannot defeat us," Deimos pronounced. "You cannot hope, with this small force, even with the great power of Marcos, to banish us."

"No," Evander said, pushing forward with all the power he had, "I mean to kill you."

There was surprise in Vanya's eyes then, like he had not imagined that Evander would be willing to go so far.

"Siding with the humans over us, that is the abomination," Deimos pronounced with disgust.

"I am your friend," Vanya said, his face turning from its usual beauty to an ugly, contorted mask. "Join us. Be my friend again."

"No," Evander roared, and flung out the last of his fire. "Never."

Then everything went black.

Marcos swung his sword, a head rolling from a sorcerer who'd become half man, half lion. He'd not been able to complete the change, and it had made him vulnerable.

Hyperion had much to answer for, Marcos thought with disgust.

He had no business interfering here, in Deimos' ugly vendetta, but he was doing it anyway.

Marcos glanced around, taking in the field of battle.

Gray was fighting with Anya against a wind sorcerer quickly losing the hold on her power. Marthe and Diana had a chimera cornered on the other side of the field, Marthe jabbing at it with a long, wickedly sharp poleaxe, as Diana hung back, peppering it with arrows that she fired, one after the other, with deadly accuracy.

Most of the sorcerers had been easy enough to defeat; they, as he and Evander had foretold, defeated themselves with the lack of control they had over their power.

They were distractions from the real fight, the fight that was going to be coming to him shortly.

Marcos took a deep breath, holding his body ready, as he felt Evander's temper rising, flaring, the fire flaming inside of him, and then suddenly, he was screaming.

He ran over to where Evander stood, eyes sightless, with Rory, Acadia, and Rowen, whose task it had been to protect his corporeal form as he sent his spirit to the caves, to flush out the remaining sorcerers.

Suddenly, Evander gasped, and he fell to his knees.

Marcos was beside him in a second, grasping at his shoulders, pulling him close. "Are you alright?" he demanded, feeling everywhere he could touch. Not finding any blood. Not finding any wounds he could identify. In his spirit form, he couldn't be killed. But still, Marcos' heart felt chilled until Evander finally nodded slowly.

"I . . . I do not believe I have any fire left," he said carefully. "I spent the rest of it, trying to get out of the cave. Vanya and Deimos are both in the last one, the farthest one."

Marcos felt relief wash through him, and he helped Evander back to his feet. "We can manage without your fire," he said, even though he knew it was a blow, and Evander knew it was a blow, he could sense the truth of it emanating from him.

He heard Gray and Anya jogging up behind him. Clearly they must have finished dispatching their last wind sorcerer.

"This," Evander said carefully, and Marcos watched as he met the eyes of each of them, "is going to be harder than we imagined. Deimos is very powerful."

"Then he cannot rage unchecked in these lands." Rory's voice was as harsh as Marcos had ever heard it.

There was a roar behind him, and Marcos turned, slowly. Hyperion and Jae were emerging from the foothills, advancing on Marthe and Diana.

Diana shot an arrow in their direction, and Jae just laughed as he brushed it away with a flick of his fingers.

"I will need to deal with this first," Marcos said, his own voice grim. He pulled a second knife from his belt.

"Do you want me to . . .?" Evander asked but Marcos interrupted him before he could finish the question.

"No," he said. "This is my fight. Deimos will be hanging back, hoping he doesn't need to get his hands particularly dirty. And Vanya? He never liked to get his hands dirty. They believe that Hyperion and Jae will finish us. But they will not."

He turned and took off at a slow jog towards where the two Guardians were heading across the field.

Marthe gestured to him as they passed each other, and he gave her a short nod. She and Diana would help Gray and Anya form the second line of defense.

There was no use in sacrificing themselves fighting Hyperion and Jae, when Marcos knew he could handle the two of them.

They are not so easy as you think, he heard Evander think in his head.

I am faster, I am stronger, I am more skilled, and I have power they have never even dreamed of, he told Evander—and himself.

No doubt Evander had confronted Deimos before allowing himself to get drawn into an attack. It was what Marcos had recommended. You are no match for him, not alone, not in your spirit form, he'd told him late last night, as they'd lain in bed and discussed today's plan. Toy with him. He will take the bait.

And he had, clearly, because Evander had lasted longer than he'd dreamt could be possible.

Leaving him with a clear path to defeating Hyperion and Jae, who would not, unlike Deimos, bother with any silly discussions.

It wasn't their style, and it wasn't Marcos' style either.

Marcos came to stand in front of the pair of them.

Hyperion's long, brown hair partially obscured his face, but he would know the other Guardian's wild, dark eyes anywhere, or the way they narrowed in when they spotted him.

"Marcos," Hyperion said.

For many years they'd sparred together in the gardens and in the armory at the Castle on Top of the World, trading blows and easygoing, harmless jabs at each other. Hyperion had been someone that Marcos had understood, whom he'd believed had understood him, at a time when he hadn't often felt like he belonged with the other Guardians in the Conclave.

But added to the wrinkle of Hyperion knowing how he fought, and how hard he could fight, was Jae.

Jae stood next to Hyperion, his stance much more uneasy than his fellow Guardian's. His green eyes and auburn hair were unique among the Conclave, and normally Marcos might have counted Jae in as one of the Guardians least likely to join forces with Deimos. After all, making sure the humans on the surface were well and provided for seemed completely opposite Deimos' goals of death and chaos, but then Marcos wouldn't be surprised if Jae was only here because of Hyperion.

They'd always been close, which had never made much sense to him.

But then, he and Evander didn't make much sense, either.

Hyperion drew his sword. "This isn't your business," he said as he swung around, lifting his sword in a high arc, and then bringing it down, steel clashing against steel, against Marcos' blade.

"It's not yours, either," Marcos claimed. "Why would you join him?"

"He offered us power, immortality, chaos," Hyperion crowed.

"Chaos," Jae echoed. "If there is chaos, I can set chaos right. What I want is a purpose again."

Marcos thought that defeating Deimos, that evil bastard, was purpose enough, but what did he know?

Hyperion was fast, but Marcos was faster, and as they fought back and forth, he kept waiting for Jae to interfere, but he didn't. Just kept watching and waiting with those bright eyes of his.

Hyperion's fighting style had not changed much in the last thousand years, but Marcos thought his own had evolved, since he'd spent so much time on the surface, learning and teaching the humans.

He worked in a particularly Ardglassian set of parries, heavy and aggressive, big swings of the sword, angling his body so he wouldn't give Hyperion an opening he could use.

Slowly but surely, he began to push Hyperion back, until just when he reached Jae, the other Guardian reached out and unexpectedly sliced out at Marcos with one of his small-handled knives that he always kept to cut a bunch of grapes or to harvest a sheaf of wheat.

Marcos sidestepped, and the knife flashed in the sun as it hit only air.

He fixed Jae with an implacable stare. "You do not want to do this," he said firmly.

Hyperion was probably a lost cause; there was no rationalizing with him. But there was good in Jae. Marcos could feel it still.

"He's with me," Hyperion snarled, and launched another series of heavy-handed attacks. He'd always been too focused on offensive movements, and now Marcos twisted that against him, crouching low and letting him over-commit himself, all while dodging Jae's ineffectual knife slices.

He'd fought two men before. He'd often fought more than two—and because he was faster and quicker to process and analyze his opponents' movements, it had been a challenge, but nothing that he worried might actually overcome him.

But Hyperion and Jae together were proving to be more difficult than he'd anticipated.

Jae was like a bug, constantly hovering around him, lashing out with his knives, always keeping him off-balance and trying to anticipate his next attack, and it divided just enough attention from Hyperion that he was having difficulty neutralizing him.

With Jae joining the fight, he'd pulled back, just enough, refusing to let Marcos bait him into reaching too far, too fast. It made it so much harder to trap him, the way he wanted to.

Hyperion cackled as Marcos smashed into his side, just under his guard, elbowing him hard in the ribs, though he kept his feet.

Annoyingly, Marcos huffed.

He whirled around, trying to outflank Jae, so he could have a few precious seconds alone to finish Hyperion, but he was smart, too, and had watched Marcos fight for thousands of years, and somehow kept one step ahead.

Use them against each other, echoed in his mind, and for a second, Marcos almost froze, and then he realized it was Evander's voice, giving him a suggestion.

And a very good one, too.

He shoved back against Jae, letting the Guardian's knife slice at the side of his armor. He felt the flash of pain, but pushed it away. Instead he focused on spinning out of the way as fast as he could, moving so abruptly that Hyperion couldn't react fast enough, and instead of battering Marcos with his sword on his unprotected side, he caught Jae.

"Ooph," Jae bellowed as the blade sliced through his stomach and blood began to spill and pool on the ground.

Hyperion hesitated, staring at the Guardian in front of him, at his friend, and then he howled in pain. Like he'd been the one who'd been hurt. That was all the opening that Marcos needed.

He bashed Hyperion on the head with the heavy steel pommel of his sword, right in the vulnerable part of his skull, and he went down hard.

In an instant, he had his sword pressed against Hyperion's neck and the Guardian dropped his own to the ground.

"And the other knife," Marcos ground out, gesturing with his own.

Hyperion dropped that one too, stark shock in his eyes.

"You will give me your word," Marcos said, "that you will go only to the Castle, and have Abram heal Jae, and I will let you go. If you do not, I will kill you both where you stand."

"You could not remove my head," Hyperion blustered.

But he could.

And he would.

Marcos did not want to, but if forced, if he had to, to protect Evander and Rory and Gray and the kingdom, he would.

It was the vow he'd taken, ages ago, to protect the humans of the surface with his life and with the lives of the other Guardians.

Hyperion hesitated.

"I could break my word."

"You will not."

Marcos glanced up and saw Evander standing there, and there was an unbelievable fierceness in his expression.

"And do not bother to lie, because I will know if you are lying," Evander added.

"Will you?" Jae gasped out, holding his stomach, blood spilling down his fingers in deep red rivulets.

"Yes," Evander said and he was the Evander of old then, the Evander Marcos had known before his banishment, the impish look in his blue eyes and the resoluteness of his stare.

"Vanya said you got your powers back," Hyperion said cautiously. "He was not lying."

"And neither will you," Evander threatened. "Call Abram, and ask him to transport Jae back to the Castle. Heal him. Stay out of this. We will see you when it is finished."

But still Hyperion hesitated. "How do you know you will be standing after you and Deimos . . ."

Evander didn't let him finish the question. "Because I know," he said with finality. "Go back to the Castle, Hyperion. Take Jae. And we will deal with you two later."

"Hyperion . . ." Jae said softly, quietly.

The only way to kill a Guardian, to truly kill them, was to take off their head.

Jae's injury would not be technically life-threatening, but it would be unpleasant. For a long few months his body would knit itself back together.

Marcos knew, because Marcos had dealt with it before.

"Fine," Hyperion said, sounding particularly sulky. "Abram!" he called out, and the Guardian of Healing, who was able to transport patients long distances, the only loophole Evander knew to reach the surface from the Castle quickly, appeared. His eyes were kind and concerned. He reached out for Jae, and in a second, the three of them were gone.

Marcos eyed Evander. "They were not lying?" he asked.

Evander shook his head. "Jae was in considerable pain. He had not even wanted to join Hyperion, but you know Hyperion."

"I do," Marcos said heavily. "We will have to deal with them later."

"But first . . ."

"First," an unearthly voice called out, "this annoying interference will end."

Marcos looked up and felt his stomach lurch.

Deimos had crossed the field with his unearthly speed, Vanya hovering behind him, and suddenly he had a grip, a very firm grip, if the increasingly white skin of Rory's face was to be believed, on the King of Fontaine.

Marcos saw Gray's own expression go ashen.

"Rory!" he called out, desperately.

"How . . ." Marcos began to ask, but Evander just shrugged in response.

"I will kill this pest, right here, right now," Deimos announced, pulling back, until he was at the entrance to the cave, at the highest point of the foothills. "I will put him and the rest of these humans out of their misery."

Marcos exchanged glances with Evander. They had not planned to attack Deimos so directly, but he must have realized that they wouldn't, so he'd forced their hand.

There was terror in Rory's eyes but bravery too. And even with the incredibly hard grip that Deimos had on his throat, he gave a tiny shake of his head.

All the movement he could probably force.

The message was clear enough. Do not save me. Save the kingdom.

But the agony written on Evander's face didn't give Marcos any choice.

He didn't want anyone else to die today, and he especially was not going to let Rory die.

"Let him go," Marcos called out, "let him go, and we will not make you bleed the way we made Jae bleed."

Deimos only laughed, but Marcos couldn't miss how Vanya's face went pale.

"Jae?" Vanya said. "You hurt Jae? One of your own brothers?"

"What does it matter?" Deimos retorted, glancing behind him, seemingly unconcerned, while Vanya looked stricken.

Marcos wasn't particularly surprised—he'd known long before today that Deimos only cared about himself and that the other Guardians were merely fodder in his games—but Vanya . . . he must not have realized how much Deimos was willing to sacrifice.

"It matters because . . ." But Vanya stopped and then clamped his lips together. "It matters. He is our brother."

But Deimos merely shrugged. "And I have asked you, repeatedly, to deal with your brothers and return them to the fold, but you have not." The words were dismissive and cruel, and then Deimos completed the trifecta by turning away from him completely.

Marcos had hoped the slight delay in Deimos' threats might give him an idea for an opening on how to attack him, how to save Rory.

Let me do it, Evander's voice echoed in his head. Some of my fire magic has returned. I can feel it growing again.

No, Marcos said resolutely. It's not going to be enough. It wasn't enough before, in the caves. And that was when you were at full strength.

But we have to try. Evander's thoughts, even in Marcos' head, were despairing.

Deimos advanced, dragging Rory by the throat. He had gone from white to red, and there was panic and a resignation in his eyes.

Marcos knew if they were going to act, they had to act now.

But before he could finish formulating a plan—any plan—Deimos froze, his face suddenly a stricture of pain.

Something that he had never seen on it before.

Then the arm holding Rory twisted, and then twisted even further, and suddenly he was free, and he was gasping and stumbling away from Deimos, running across the field into Gray's arms.

It was Vanya, Marcos realized. He'd grabbed on to Deimos' back, and was closing his eyes, channeling every bit of power into Deimos, trying to . . . control him?

Marcos had never understood exactly how Vanya's magic worked, how he was able to make people believe in whatever he chose, but he was using it now, and he was using it on Deimos.

I didn't think he could use it on one of us, Evander's awed voice proclaimed.

But he was. Holding on and digging in, even though Deimos kept snarling and pushing him, and pulling him, dark smoky power erupting out of him.

Vanya's face paled, and then went even paler, until he was white as the snow that surrounded the Well, as Death tried to conquer him once and for all. But still he held on.

"Quick," Evander said. "He's weakening Deimos, but he can't finish him off. We need to help him."

Marcos still wasn't sure exactly what was happening, and Vanya's about-face was so sudden, he hesitated.

"Marcos." Evander grabbed him by the arm. "You can do this, you can hurt him, you can kill him, but we need to do it now, before . . ."

It was clear what Evander was about to say. Marcos could feel it. Vanya's eyes were rolling into the back of his head, even as he held on, even as Deimos' power lanced through him, weakening him even further.

"How can we trust him?"

Evander's eyes searched his. He looked desperate. "This is the time," he said. "We trust him because we have to."

Marcos wanted to argue, but he saw Evander's gaze. Saw the plea to trust him, and how could he do anything else, when he loved him the way he did?

"Yes," Marcos finally agreed. "What should we do?"

Evander hesitated and then set his knife down. "Come," he said, and suddenly he was melting away and in his place was a pure white horse—no, a pure white unicorn, with a glistening silver horn, and a rippling silvery-white mane.

"Come," Evrard repeated again. "Come ride me. Together, we'll defeat Deimos once and for all."

Marcos didn't hesitate. He leapt onto Evrard's back and he took off in a fierce gallop, winding his way through the fields. Marcos saw his approach, and realized just what he was doing. Reaching up, he steadied himself by gripping Evrard's flanks with his thighs, and he raised his sword, and he watched, in near slow motion as Vanya collapsed, face now totally gray, and Evrard whipped them around, positioning Marcos in exactly the place he needed to be.

He'd been in so many battles, faced so many opponents, and at the time, all of them had seemed vitally important.

But Marcos realized that no strike was ever going to be as important as this one. He lifted his sword, and with every ounce of strength and will he possessed, he smote Deimos. He almost wavered, when the sword struck Deimos' dark magic, but he ignored the sudden nausea and the way every bone in his body seemed suddenly to be made of water, and he pushed through the stroke cleanly.

Deimos' head rolled away from his body, and it was, almost as suddenly as it had begun, over.

Forever.