Gently, Doyle laid a hand on his brother’s cheek. And rising, lifted his sword.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In him the rage held cold, an iced fury as the hot licks of blood and madness swirled around him. His brother. Young, innocent, suffering. The life draining out of him, out of a body wracked with pain.
The war screaming around him.
Always another war.
Through the fetid air he saw Riley slash through an attacker with her knife, then another as she shouted something at him that he couldn’t hear.
Didn’t she know, couldn’t she see he wasn’t part of them now? He was removed, for that moment removed and separate. Away.
Bran’s lightning couldn’t penetrate the distance, nor Sasha’s bolts.
His brother, he thought. His blood. His failure.
“Save me.”
Once again Doyle looked down at the face that had haunted him through the centuries. So young, so innocent. So full of pain and fear.
Images flashed through his mind, etched in joy and grief. Feilim toddling on unsteady legs on a seaswept beach. Struggling not to cry when Doyle sucked a splinter out of his thumb. How he’d laughed when he’d ridden a chubby brown pony. How he’d grown so slim and straight, and still would sit with avid eyes around the fire when their grandfather told one of his tales.
And now this image overlaying all, Feilim, face bone white, eyes mad with pain, bleeding at his feet.
And the boy lifted a trembling hand to the man. “This one thing, only this one thing, and I live. Only you can save me.”
“I would have given my life to save my brother. You’re not my brother.”
And cased in that ice, Doyle rammed the keen point of his sword into the heart of the lie. It screamed, piercing, inhuman. Its blood boiled black, went to ash.
Now the sword was vengeance, cold and slashing as Doyle cleaved all and any that came. If they clawed or bit, he felt nothing. Inside him was another scream, a war cry, ringing in his ears, pumping in his heart.
A thousand battles whirled in his head as his sword slashed and thrust. A thousand battlefields. Ten thousand enemies as faceless as the mad creatures created by a vengeful god.
No retreat. Kill them all.
He saw one of the black, murderous beasts hook claws into Sawyer’s back. With one bare hand, he tore it away, stomped its vicious head to dust with his boot.
He spun away to destroy more and saw nothing was left of them but blood and gore and ash. He saw Sasha lower to her knees, waving a hand when Bran rushed to her side. Annika embracing Sawyer as much to hold him up as hold on.
And Riley, her gun lowered, her bloody knife still gripped, watching him.
His breath was short, Doyle realized, and his head filled with tribal drums. And he who’d fought those countless wars wanted to tremble at victory.
He made himself turn to Bran. “Purify it.”
“Sawyer is hurt.”
“I’m okay.” Sawyer closed a hand over Annika’s arm, squeezed as he studied Doyle. “I’m okay.”
“Purify it,” Doyle repeated. “It’s not enough to strike them down.”
“Yes.” Bran helped Sasha to her feet. “Your hand, fáidh. And yours. And all. Flesh to flesh, blood to blood.”
He cupped the blood from their wounds in his palm, reached up with another. Pure white salt filled it.
“With bloodshed we rebuke the dark.” He walked a circle around the others, spilling their joined blood on the ground. “With salt now blessed we make our mark,” he said as he retraced his steps, letting it sift through his fingers. “With light to spark.” He held his hands over the ground. “Now fire burns the unholy lie, rise up the flames to purify.”