“All right,” she called. “Who’s ready?”
They surged at her in unison. And, when next she flashed, the animals dove to greet her where she reappeared, clearly expecting the action. But she had expected their counterattack and met the creature closest to her with a sword through its open mouth.
Unlike immortals, these beasts did not heal swiftly, and a second one died.
Eight to go, with roughly nine minutes on the countdown clock.
Roux barely contained a cheer.
Blythe took out three others in quick succession, leaving five opponents and a little less than five minutes. But she didn’t do it without injury. Gashes littered her torso. Horn gouges had left holes in both of her shoulders and one of her thighs. Her right arm had no bicep, only teeth marks in the bone.
Heart in his throat, Roux reached up to grip a pillar, uncaring when cracks spread around his fingers. A scream tore through his mind, animalistic. Primal. There was something odd about it. At any other time, it would have bothered him. Right now, he couldn’t think.
Blood loss had slowed Blythe’s ability to heal. Not to mention her motions. No longer did she have the strength to flash. Though she tried, flickering in and out of view but getting nowhere. She seemed to operate solely on combat skill and sheer determination.
The creatures proved relentless. They gave no quarter, scraping her with their toxic flesh, slicing her with their horns and stomping on any part of her they could reach. Yet, she refused to give up, and took out another and another and another.
Only two monsters and two minutes to go. She just needed to outlast them.
Toward the end of the one-minute mark, she killed another but lost a hand, stumbled, and fell. As she rolled to escape a series of bites, she hemorrhaged blood in every direction.
Breath hitched in Roux’s lungs. The remaining beast prowled around her, herding her into a corner.
She had nowhere to go.
Claws grew from its nail beds.
Her prey lunged in her direction—and slammed into the wall. As its stony flesh cracked, she reappeared behind it. In a single fluid motion, she rammed a sword hilt into the widest crack, breaking through and reaching its heart with her hand. The ability to flash hadn’t abandoned her, after all. She’d faked it.
A howl of pain echoed as she yanked the heart out. Her specialty. The creature toppled, seized, then sagged into the sand.
Blythe dropped the organ and stumbled, collapsing. Blood poured from her wounds. Her eyes drifted closed.
“She outlasted the unibeasts, making round two officially over,” Roux bellowed. He flashed and gathered her near lifeless body. At last the screams in his head quieted. “Stay with me, Lyla.”
She panted shallow breaths. Alive! But she didn’t open her eyes.
He straightened, clutching her against his chest. Where to take her? Staying in the palace, being surrounded by all those prying eyes and ears right now held no appeal. Nor did camping near Wraith Island.
An idea rose. He flashed into the circle of Oath Stones and scanned the area. Abandoned. Excellent. Silvery moonlight glinted off the rocks. Far too soon, the sun would rise, starting another day. Another battle.
While cold winds had plagued the royal grounds for days, warmth enveloped the private haven. After gently stretching out on the soft grass and arranging Blythe against his chest, facing away from him, he sliced his wrist and held the wound over her mouth.
Crimson dripped past her parted teeth. She needed the blood of her consort to heal. Would she tolerate Roux’s or not? What if he was wrong and he didn’t actually belong to her?
They would find out.
“Take everything you need, Lyla. Heal.”
At first, she didn’t act as if she’d heard him. Or react at all. But as more and more of his blood dripped down her throat, her eyelids popped open and narrowed. She grabbed his arm with her working hand, bit into his flesh, and gulped him down.
“That’s my precious,” he cooed. Careful to hold his arm steady for her, he stretched out at her side. “Not just blood. Soul, too, she-beast.”
A soft light glowed around her lips. Usually, when phantoms fed on his soul, cold flowed to his limbs and an itch he couldn’t shake tormented him inside and out. Here, now, satisfaction inundated him. Color was returning to her cheeks. Gashes were closing, and her missing hand was reforming.
She continued to drink with greedy abandon. Even as a new tide of weakness washed in, his satisfaction remained high.
He petted her hair, telling her, “No one fought harder or better than my Lyla.”