He doesn’t budge.
When he does the same to me, I somehow manage to stand firm, feet rooted to the ground. Even with him being waif thin, as a guy, he has the advantage of strength, but I have desperation on my side.
Still, with me bleeding, I won’t last long and he knows it.
I give him my best death glare. It’s probably my overactive imagination, but I feel like I see Phobetor’s face deep in those fiery depths. A sadistic part of me I didn’t realize existed wants to reach into those eyes and choke the god of nightmares with my bare hands for hurting Bebe.
Rattie pushes with renewed force, an ugly expression contorting his handsome features.
I push back, matching his strength.
“Tick-tock,” he sneers. “Your grandmother is bleeding out, like a stuck mooft. And so are you.”
I’m so angry I feel like my own eyes might burst into flames.
Baring my teeth like an animal, I growl, “If she dies, I will hunt you down to the ends of the dream world. God or not, I will end you.” Leveraging my fury, I strain my quivering triceps to shove again with my sword—and at the same time, I kick his shin, hard.
Though there’s no sign of pain on his face, he does lose his balance for a second—which is all I need to open a deep cut in his shoulder.
Is that concern in those fiery eyes? Can’t be. Phobetor doesn’t care about losing this one body.
His next thrust is at my neck.
I parry, then hack and slash at him viciously, eager to draw more blood.
He counters every slice.
I block his strikes as well, but my muscles are growing tired, and the loss of blood is making me woozy.
Rattie’s shoulder wound is bleeding too, but I doubt it’ll mess with his concentration.
He lunges at me again, leaving a gash in my side.
Puck.
I need to win and soon.
Somehow.
The next round of attacks is brutal, but I’m beginning to notice something.
There’s a pattern to Phobetor’s movements.
A pattern I can exploit.
I block and dodge the next couple of strikes and wait for my moment. If I’m right, there will be an opening soon.
There. I stab his thigh as he prepares for the thrust part of his pattern.
Again, there’s no sign of pain on his face, but there’s more anger there. More importantly, his footwork is now compromised, so I must’ve done some real damage.
Is he going to continue the pattern? It might be all he knows.
And he does keep going in the same vein. Except when I exploit it again, I miss his neck and only nick his ear.
Puck.
His eyes narrow and the fire disappears from them, replaced by madness.
Double puck.
Without Phobetor’s control, Rattie has reverted to what he’s become after I killed him in the dream world—a homicidal maniac.
I attack, hoping I catch him off guard.
Nope.
He blocks, and with an animalistic roar, he swings the sword wildly. I barely dodge the attack, and the onslaught that follows. In theory, Rattie is vulnerable to illusion powers once more, but I don’t dare distract Valerian for that. Instead, I attempt to push my opponent into REM sleep, figuring that will bring Phobetor back in the worst case, or make Rattie sleep in the best case.
It doesn’t work. Either he’s in a strange dream-like state already, or I have too much adrenaline to work my powers.
Doing my best to ignore the weakness and cold brought about by the blood loss, I attack him, then defend myself as I study his repertoire of movements.
Aha. Rattie’s attacks begin to remind me of the time I fought him in his Nutcracker guise in the dream world, but remixed through insanity. Going on a hunch, I raise the sword above my head and slice down with all my strength.
He blocks just in time, and a flash of sparks later, we’re in a carbon copy of our prior crisscrossed sword lock. Except this time, things are different. Insane or not, he’s more able to feel pain than Phobetor—so I smash my knee into his groin.
Rattie screams like a wounded boar.
I shove harder, and his own sword slices his face.
His eyes widen, and fire returns to them—but too late.
I pierce his chest, my blade penetrating breastbone and entering his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rattie’s body collapses, eyes lifeless.
Panting, I whirl around and scan the rest of the battlefield.
An Overtaken has his hands wrapped around Asha’s throat. My sister’s eyes are wild with panic, but she’s struggling valiantly.
I dash over there and chop off the enemy’s hands at the wrists. Freed, Asha gasps for air and shoots the crippled Overtaken in the head at the same time.
Then we join forces and help Valerian with the uber he’s been fighting.
Next, we look over to where Maxwell and Kojo are fighting a werewolf in animal form. Both dreamwalkers have gashes from claws and teeth, and are bleeding profusely.