Robert slammed into the door. “Locked from the outside. I can see the bar.”
“Stand back.” Curran took a running start and rammed the door. It shuddered. He rammed it again. Wood splintered, the doors burst open, and we shot out into blinding daylight. The fresh air tasted so good. I stumbled, blinking, trying to get used to the glare.
A bridge melded together from sections of a concrete overpass stretched before us, covered with snow and chunks of ice. It spanned a gap at least two hundred yards deep and about a hundred yards wide. An enormous sheer wall encircled the gap. The bridge ran directly into the wall and in the place where they met, a large steel door marked the exit.
In the middle of the bridge stood Hugh d’Ambray.
Adrenaline surged through me. My heart hammered. The world slid into sharp focus. I saw it all at the same time in half a second: the six people in the familiar black tactical gear of the Iron Dogs behind Hugh; the E-50, an enhanced heavy machine gun that spat bullets so fast, they cut through steel like a can opener, mounted on a swivel platform to the left; the two gunners half-hidden behind the gun’s blast shield; Hugh himself, huge, wearing dark armor; and the door behind him. He stood between us and freedom. Hugh in front of us, the undead horde behind us. We had to go through him or die.
“Bar the door, please,” Ghastek said. “Also, just in case you’re wondering, I have no idea how to open that outer gate.”
“We’ll deal with it when we get there,” Jim snarled.
Thomas picked up the broken wooden bar and slid it back into the rungs. It wouldn’t hold for long, but anything was better than nothing.
Hugh’s face was grim. His cloak was black. His armor was black, too. Clearly he had a theme going. The armor didn’t look like either modern tactical gear or medieval plate. It looked woven, as if tiny metal threads had been somehow made pliant, painstakingly crafted together into a fabric, and molded to Hugh’s muscular frame. The fabric thickened into dense plates, mimicking the large muscles on his chest, stomach, and arms, and flowing over limbs and midway up Hugh’s thick neck. Part of my aunt’s blood armor looked like that, except hers was red. It looked like something my father would make, which meant claws, fangs, and blades wouldn’t cut through it.
I unsheathed Sarrat. It fit perfectly into my hands.
Where to strike? Back of the arm, covered. Inner thigh, covered. Midsection, covered. His face was about the only thing not protected, but he wasn’t going to just stand there and let me take a shot at it. I wasn’t at a hundred percent either. I had a hard time standing.
Hugh’s eyes promised death, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking to the right of me. At Curran.
Curran snarled. His irises went gold. All rational thought fled from his face. His expression turned savage. He grinned, baring his teeth.
Holy shit. Apparently they were happy to see each other.
Hugh reached behind his back and pulled out two short black axes. He pointed one at Curran and roared, “Lennart!”
It was the kind of roar that would cut straight through the chaotic noise of battle. It bounced off Mishmar behind us, and far above the giant birds screeched in alarm.
“Come on!” Hugh screamed.
“Curran?” I asked.
Curran didn’t even hear me. He had already started forward, pulling off his jacket as he moved. The jacket fell on the bridge. Muscles on his back and shoulders bulged under the dark shirt. He broke into a run. Curran was gone. Only the Beast Lord remained.
Hugh gripped his axes. He must’ve decided swords couldn’t do enough damage to Curran, so he went for something that could cleave a limb off in one blow.
“Why isn’t the Beast Lord shifting?” Nasrin murmured next to me.
“No point,” I told her. Curran had fought my aunt with me. He would remember the armor. “Claws won’t penetrate that armor.”
“Shoot anyone who interferes!” Hugh roared and charged.
They tore toward each other. There wasn’t a force on the planet that could stop them from colliding. Here’s hoping the world didn’t end when they hit each other.
I wanted to cut Hugh into pieces. I owed him for Mauro, my broken sword, and seven days in the hole. But Curran owed him for seeing me disappear, for finding out where I went, for running after me across half the country not knowing if I was still alive, and then for fighting his way to Mishmar only to find me half-dead. Curran had a much bigger score to settle.
Blood rushed through my veins. I could hear my own heartbeat. The familiar metallic taste of adrenaline coated my tongue. Come on, Curran. Hit him hard. At least the magic was down.
“Can you take out the gunners?” Thomas asked Andrea next to me.
“No,” she said. “Not while they’re hiding behind the blast shield. I could get one, maybe.”
The two men collided.
Hugh spun the axes as if they weighed nothing and chopped with the right axe straight down, putting all of his power into the swing. Curran blocked the haft with his forearm, but Hugh’s left axe was already moving. The axe head bit into Curran’s stomach and sliced sideways right to left.
No!
The world slowed. I saw the bloody blade of the axe slide free, flinging the fine mist of Curran’s blood into the air. My heart was beating too loud in my head.
Curran dropped his guard. Hugh continued the stroke with his left axe, bringing it up and cleaving with dizzying speed. Curran knocked Hugh’s arm aside before Hugh could bury his right axe head in Curran’s side. Instead, the blade grazed Curran’s side. Move faster, baby. Move. Move!
Curran leaped back. His left side bled. The cut on his stomach couldn’t have been deep, but it bled, too.
Hugh flicked his axes and flung the blood at Curran. Red spray splashed over Curran’s neck and chest. He’d flicked Curran’s own blood at him. Asshole. Hugh smiled. Curran stepped forward, his hands raised, aiming for Hugh’s face. Hugh spun, picking up momentum, and sliced at Curran’s midsection in a horizontal cut with his right axe, leaving his face wide open. It’s a trap, Curran. Don’t!
Curran dodged and rammed his forearm into Hugh’s jaw. No.
Hugh staggered back, leaning back, turning the energy of the impact into his own blow, and chopped at Curran’s left side. The axe bit into flesh at least two inches deep. Damn it all to hell!
Curran danced back. Hugh lunged forward, slicing at Curran’s leading leg. Curran dodged left, jerked his fists up, and brought them down like a hammer toward Hugh’s head.