She made a swift beeline for Fort, but freaking Cletus came at her from another angle, forcing her to turn to him. She blocked the sword that swung her way, and their blades clanged.
Sneering, he danced backwards. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Clearly not hard enough,” she said. “I found you first.”
They parried and thrust over and over. She didn’t need to worry about the Ancients or townspeople watching her fight, so she didn’t check her speed; didn’t hold back magickly or otherwise. He staggered backwards under the pressure, unprepared for the rigor with which she flew at him. He fell on his butt, and she wasted no time in skewering him with her sword.
Milos came into view and sent balls of blue light sailing at her—one clipped her shoulder, the other smashed into her chest. Pretty they might be, but they also hit like a goddamn hammer, bruising her for sure.
She retaliated with her own magick, hurling dark smoky spiked orbs right at his fucking head—orbs he annoyingly managed to evade. Swords raised, they went at each other. They ducked and twisted and deflected, cursing and snarling.
Around her, her crew battled hard. Dead keepers were up and running, fighting the live keepers. Roars, cries, grunts, squawks, the clashing of steel, and the insanity-laced giggles of Anabel/Mary filled the air.
Wynter hissed as Milos’s blade stabbed her smarting shoulder. His brows snapped together when the runes had no effect on her. Yeah, well, there was something he didn’t know, and she saw no need to educate him about it.
Although a wet warmth pooled on her skin and soaked her tee, she didn’t look at the wound. She kept swiping out with her sword, aiming for every weak spot, ensuring her every strike was precise.
He twisted his hips and kicked out at her stomach. Missed. Growled. Charged.
She ducked and came up on his side, thrusting her sword deep. He stumbled, his lips parting in both shock and pain, and then dropped to his knees. She swung her sword, beheading him … and smirked at Fort as she did so.
Screaming in fury at the death of his brother, Fort yanked his blade out of a reanimated keeper. He didn’t look good. At all. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his tee sported several scarlet stains.
He rushed Wynter with another loud cry of anger, his nostrils flaring when she parried the blow. “Youbitch,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy this. I didn’t get the privilege of tossing your thou-art-holier-than-thou mother over the falls. I’ll pay that bitch back by impaling her daughter on my blade, and I’ll avenge my brother in the doing of it.”
Anger flooded her at the mention of her mother, but Wynter kept it in check. “You were honestly surprised she rejected you? Come on, Fort, you make ogres look good.”
He lunged with a roar. His blows were precise and powerful. The tall bastard had a long reach, and he used it well. Sadly.
Knowing to go for his exposed legs, Wynter swung her hips and slammed the flat of her foot on his thigh, loving his subsequent grunt. The piece of shit waved his arm, sending a gust of magick at her. The weight of it sent her skidding back several feet, but she managed not to fall. Liking the surprise flickering in his eyes, she grinned and then lashed out with her magick.
Growling as deep welts sizzled to life on his face and neck, he retaliated with a swipe of his sword. She blocked it, and then they were at it again.
Around them, chaos raged on. But she could sense that the numbers of keepers had dropped. And beneath the sound of Anabel/ Mary singing “Mighty Morphin Power Rangers”—whatever the fuck that was about—the distinctive noises of battle had dimmed.
Wind came at her again, belting her in the face and stealing her breath. She stayed on her feet, but it meant throwing out her arms to—
Pain blazed along her chest as the sword sliced through cloth and skin. “Motherfucker.” His taunting laugh only fueled her anger. She struck at him with magick, and he cursed as whips of dark power zapped their way along the ground and crashed into him.
The bastard rallied fast and rushed her again, thrusting and parrying, his breathing rapid and shallow. He was running out of steam, and they both knew it. Maybe that was why he began to strike out wildly, desperately, like death itself was hot on his heels.
Well, it was.
When the opening she was waiting for finally came, she kicked out at his knee with a snarl. His leg buckled slightly, and she took advantage. Lunging forward, she thrust the sword deep into his gut, twisted it sharply, and then withdrew it. After a moment, he slumped to his front, dead.Boom.
Wynter glanced at her crew. Delilah and Hattie were back in their human forms, and both had suffered only minor wounds. Xavier looked like he’d been attacked by an alley cat, so he’d likely been hit with skinwalker magick or something.
Anabel/Mary was lying among the corpses that were sprawled on the grass with their eyes open wide and their clothes soaked with blood. She wasn’t dead herself. She wasn’t even severely injured. But she’d linked her fingers through that of a dead keeper and was chatting to him like they were a smitten, stargazing couple. But she snapped to alertness and sprung to her feet at the sound of people racing through the woods.
Tensing, Wynter spun to face the new threat. Not more keepers, she quickly realized. Nope, these were residents of the town—including Maxim. And as they took in the scene before them, their lips parted in surprise.
Wynter cleared her throat. “Don’t mind us, we were just leaving.”
*
There was nothing pleasant nor unpleasant about the psychic space Cain found himself in. It was merely a rectangular room that was all white paint and gleaming white floor tiles. There were only two chairs. Lailah sat in one, her posture regal, her smile placid.
His creature eyed her with distaste. Even before she’d played a part in imprisoning Cain, it had never liked her. It saw only weakness when it looked at her. A hypocrite. A backstabber. A person who would do anything—fuck over anyone—to obtain what she wanted and get where she wanted to be.