With a Golden Sword (DFZ Changeling Book 2), page 21
He drove like he’d never driven before, condensing his invisible gossamer into a thick shield over his back since knocking the blades away was useless. Maintaining such a heavy defense while driving took all of his concentration, but while Valente should have been paying attention to the fight, all he could think about was Lola in the alley between the trucks, begging him not to die.
He could still feel her somewhere far to the west. She was probably back in Tristan’s barrow, watching him on TV like everyone else. Would she think he was still losing on purpose? Still throwing his life away despite everything she’d done?
That was the thought he couldn’t stand. Valente had never been afraid of death, but the idea of Lola thinking he was throwing himself away when she’d faced her greatest fear to save him—or worse, that she’d blame herself for his death because she hadn’t been able to get his head in time—was an ending he could not face. He could not lose here, not yet.
Valente slammed on his brakes, bouncing the rest of Orlando’s blades off his shield as he spun his bike around. He ran his hands over his wounds next, stopping the bleeding with a freezing layer of gossamer. Across the empty square, Orlando threw out his giant arm again, sending another volley of blood-red swords flying at him, but the Rider didn’t run this time. He planted his feet on the ground instead, gunning his silent bike straight toward his enemy.
The red swords turned in an arc as Orlando opened his arms to greet him, clearly intending to crush the Rider between his body and the flying blades. Valente hit the gas in response, putting on a burst of speed as he aimed his motorcycle dead center at the giant’s chest. Then, when he was too close for either of them to dodge, he let go of his bike and launched himself straight up into the air.
Just like everything else it did, the black motorcycle made no sound as it crashed into Orlando. The impact didn’t even force the huge fairy to step back, because the Rider’s bike had never been anything but gossamer and shadows. The flying swords that had been chasing the Rider landed next, pattering against their creator like red raindrops. Neither seemed to bother Orlando in the slightest, but they did distract him from Valente as the Black Rider fell straight on top of his head, his arm already stretched down to slap his gloved hand flat against the top of the Red Knight’s bloody helmet.
He fired his magic like a shotgun blast the second he made contact, flash-freezing the gossamer that formed Orlando’s skull. This caused the knight’s helmet to splinter, but that wasn’t actually Valente’s target. He already knew from his earlier stab that the fairy’s head wasn’t on his shoulders.
It was in his chest.
The hard lump that had rolled off his spike earlier was the only piece of the knight’s unbeatable gossamer body that was different. It was also the only thing Orlando had bothered to move out of his way, so Valente plunged his arm down, shattering through the Red Knight’s frozen helmet as he dug his way into the giant’s body to search for his prize.
He must have been on to something, because for the first time ever, Orlando went on the defensive. With a roar like a giant table saw, he swung his huge sword straight up, carving off a piece of his own chest in his rush to slice the Rider off of him. But Valente had already seen it coming and dropped down the Red Knight’s back, using his opponent’s massive size against him just as he’d done with the troll he and Lola had fought. While Orlando chopped through his own neck in a frantic effort to catch him, Valente’s hand was already melting through the armor between his shoulder blades, his gloved fingers sliding through the gossamer like hot nails through wax until they found the solid lump he’d felt before.
It slid away the second he touched it. Orlando was thrashing beneath him, chopping his own body to pieces in his frenzy to reach the Black Rider. Valente had to fend off the wild swings with one hand while reaching with the other, his fingers scrambling after the hard lump that was darting around inside the bigger fairy’s body like a fish.
It couldn’t stay that way forever, though. As Orlando cut himself smaller and smaller, the lump had fewer and fewer places to run. It was just a matter of time before Valente cornered it. Just a little more and—
There!
He seized the wiggling lump in his fist and launched backward, yanking the thing out of Orlando like a plug. The fairy screamed as it tore free. A real scream, not a buzzsaw whine, because the lump Valente clutched in his hands wasn’t a lump at all. It was a head. A boy’s small head carved from a knotty piece of pine wood with a little tin soldier’s helmet nailed to the top.
The sight was so unexpected that Valente almost dropped it. The head opened its eyes as he watched, huge amber things that wept sticky sap. It opened its mouth next, chomping at the Rider with rows of splintery wooden teeth that did indeed have no tongue between them. He was trying not to lose a finger when Orlando’s giant body turned and took a swing at him.
It was much, much slower without its head, but still alive enough to be a threat. Valente had to drop the head to grab the blade before it crashed into his shoulder. The head landed between his boots with a clatter and immediately started rolling away, leaving its body to keep the Rider busy while it made its escape.
It had nearly made it to the open grate the Rider had climbed out of when its journey was cut short by the side of a polished black shoe. This was swiftly followed by a gallant crimson-coated body as the Hero stepped into the spotlights, swinging his golden sword in a gleaming arc to slice the fairy’s head in two.
Orlando’s body collapsed the second it happened. One moment, it was pushing Valente to his knees. The next, it had melted into a pile of rainbow-sheened ooze, bubbling and popping like hard candy tossed into a frying pan until it boiled away completely.
Valente watched it disappear with frantic breaths, too wound up to believe it was really over, that he was really still alive. Dimly in the distance, he could hear people cheering and shouting, but not for him. They were shouting for the Hero as Victor walked across the empty square, his golden sword gleaming in the TV lights as he held it up to show everyone the last of the fairy’s bubbling blood.
The crowd started cheering more wildly than ever, but Valente could barely stay on his feet as his master approached. He’d thrown everything he had into melting through Orlando. His weakened gossamer was already sliding off his stab wounds, allowing them to start bleeding again. The resulting dizziness sent him to his knees, which should have been a good move. Victor loved nothing better than to see people kneeling before him, but there was no smile on the Hero’s face as he came to a stop above his Rider.
“And thus do the dogs turn on each other.”
Valente froze. He could see Victor’s lips moving, but his voice was coming from all directions. Speakers, his pain-numbed mind realized belatedly. Victor wasn’t talking to him. He was speaking into his mic, addressing everyone in the city and all the millions more watching at home as he pointed the tip of his sword at Valente’s cracked helmet.
“I see now why the Black Rider was able to terrorize this city for so long,” he announced dramatically. “He’s no urban legend. He’s just another fairy monster defending his feeding grounds.”
He moved the golden sword closer. “Didn’t want to share the fear from your murder spree, did you, monster? Or perhaps you thought you could avoid my blade if you proved yourself useful?”
He paused like he was waiting for an answer, but before Valente could say a word, the Hero charged on.
“Unfortunately for you, I don’t believe that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Monsters have no place in the world I protect, which means your days of killing without consequence are over, Black Rider.”
A wild cheer went up at this, but Valente could only stare. This couldn’t be what it seemed. People couldn’t actually be buying this garbage, could they?
It was ridiculous, but when Valente finally managed to tear his eyes off of Victor, he saw the Hero’s fans pouring out of the side streets and buildings they’d fled into, their faces red with fury as they screamed at the Hero to do his job. Kill the monster! End the Black Rider’s reign of terror!
Victor waved at them with an indulgent smile, and then his hand went up to his collar to cut his mic. The Rider’s hand shot out at the same time to grab the Hero’s golden sword, but the blade burned right through his glove. He was still gasping from the pain when his master leaned over him.
“You should be grateful,” he said in his normal, unamplified voice. “I’m giving you what you’ve always wanted. Today’s the day you finally get to be free.”
“No,” Valente whispered, backing away. “Not like this. I won’t… You can’t…”
“Be quiet.”
The order landed like a sledgehammer, though not nearly as hard as the next one.
Hold still.
Valente’s body froze. He was still inside it, still watching, but he couldn’t even close his eyes. His oaths held him like a calf on the slaughter block as Victor raised the Hero’s golden sword. He paused at the top, looking around to make sure all the cameras were watching before he swung it down to slice straight through the middle of Valente’s head, killing him instantly.
Chapter 14
“Someone come clean this up.”
Victor’s order came through Simon’s earpiece crystal clear. Through the monitors in the Hero’s central command office underground, he saw the red-coated medical team scramble to obey. They grabbed a gurney and raced for the ramp where the rest of the Hero’s Army was waiting to deploy. They were about to head outside when Simon came down the metal stairs.
“I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure, sir?” the mage in the front asked nervously. “Aren’t you supposed to be overseeing—”
“I said I’ll do it,” Simon repeated, adding a bit of magic to his voice this time.
A real blood mage would have scoffed at such a small push, but these idiots weren’t real. They were fools dazzled by Victor’s promise of easy power. All their knowledge was borrowed from a pill that specifically did not include resistance training. Add in Simon’s implied authority as Victor’s apprentice, and their minds were easier to manipulate than the average non-mage’s. They got out of his way at once, practically groveling as they passed Simon the wheeled gurney and opened the door to let him outside.
The mages watched nervously as Simon pushed the gurney up the ramp the DFZ had built specifically for today. The one that was supposed to allow the Hero’s Army to flood into the square and shoot the Wild Hunt out of the sky.
Well, the fairies were here, but—in a surprise to everyone except Simon—no order had come down from their Glorious Leader. The whole time the Rider had been fighting Orlando, the mages in the command center had been arguing over whether or not they should go out and help. One had even had the guts to call Victor, who’d told him to shut up and wait for orders.
The poor guy had looked like his dad just told him Christmas was canceled, but Simon hadn’t been surprised in the slightest. From the moment the TV lights hit the Rider, he’d known what Victor was planning. He hadn’t expected the Rider to win—that had been a legitimate shock—but what came after had been classic Victor, which was why he was racing to his master’s side. Victor must need this kill very badly to sacrifice a tool as valuable as the Rider, which meant Simon would do whatever it took to make sure he didn’t get it.
The square was overrun with drones by the time Simon reached the top of the ramp. He’d overheard Victor and Jamie organizing the media blitz yesterday, but that still hadn’t prepared him for the sheer volume of coverage. Every news outlet in the world—especially those who’d missed out on last month’s Fenrir disaster—was here in force, filling the square in front of Hero’s Tower with camera drones, AI-piloted news vans, even actual living reporters in warded body armor.
That last one sounded like a suicide mission, but it wasn’t Simon’s business if someone decided a scoop was more important than their life. He was glad the media was here. They kept Victor distracted, as did the crowd cheering from the square’s edge. Those idiots’ faith in the Hero was so strong, they thought they could stand on the sidelines of a war zone like it was a football game. Victor ate it up, though, so Simon said nothing, keeping his head dutifully down as he ran the gurney toward the scene of the world’s most televised murder.
“There was no need to come out yourself,” Victor said as Simon rolled up. “We have people for this.”
“Your ‘people’ couldn’t handle it,” Simon replied, which wasn’t even a lie. Now that he was out in the open, he could hear the terrifying thunder of the Wild Hunt’s hoofbeats above his head. Their screaming horses circled like a cyclone in the grim evening sky, filling the square with the howling wind of their fury.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Victor whispered, the dazzling illusion of his Hero’s face suffused with wonder as he stared up at them. “It almost makes me glad that Fenrir was such a debacle. This scene is so much grander.”
He grinned as he looked back down at Simon. “Let this be a lesson to you, apprentice. There is no failure that a clever man can’t transform into opportunity.”
Simon nodded grimly, keeping out of the cameras as he started moving the Rider’s body onto the gurney. This was his first time actually touching Victor’s experiment. Simon knew that his gossamer was supposed to be icy, but it didn’t feel right that his body was already this cold. Life under Victor might have numbed him to blood and violence, but even Simon’s hands were shaking as he gathered the two halves of the Rider’s head and placed them on the gurney’s white plastic surface.
“Good work,” Victor said as Simon pulled the sheet over the Rider’s broken helmet. “His corpse would have distracted from my victory.”
Simon nodded and seized the gurney handles, eager to get away now that he had what he wanted, but Victor grabbed his arm. When he turned to see why, his master was looking at him with an odd expression.
“I’m proud of you, Simon,” he said, his voice surprised, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying it, either. “Of all the apprentices I’ve had, you were by far the most interesting. Your scheming mind helped me push my own limits. I’m grateful to you for that, so I hope you won’t be too disappointed.”
An icy tendril curled in Simon’s stomach. “Disappointed about what?”
Victor flashed him the Hero’s smile and turned his attention back to the Hunt. It was his typical game—saying something cryptic to make you beg for more—but Simon didn’t have time. Anything that came out of that man’s mouth was only ever for his own benefit, anyway. Whatever he was hinting at, Simon was sure he was better off not knowing.
With that truth firmly in his mind, he turned his back on Victor to focus on wheeling the Rider away from the battlefield. There was a medical station set up in the parking deck of Hero’s Tower, but Victor’s whole army would be watching if Simon went that way, so he shifted course, pushing the Rider’s body toward the front of the Hero’s Tower instead. It was tricky getting the gurney up the stairs without help, but Simon made it work, shoving the cart through the gaping hole the Rider had left in the tower’s glass doors.
The dark lobby was a relief after the blinding lights outside. All the news teams were fixated on the Hero, so Simon didn’t even have to worry about drones as he parked the gurney at the back of the tower’s marble atrium and got to work. He grabbed a piece of glass from the shattered windows and sliced it across his palms, first his right, then his left. When his hands were good and bloody, he took a deep breath and flipped back the sheet to reveal the two halves of the Rider’s head.
The floating, dazzled feeling that hit him next was almost a relief. He’d worried it was too late, but if the Rider’s head still had enough oomph left to enthrall him even a little, that was something Simon could work with. As he’d learned from Lola, fairies were incredibly tough. For all that they called it “gossamer,” their magic was more like ballistic gel. Human souls were far more fragile, but the Rider hadn’t been fully human for a long time. If this was going to work on anyone, it would work on him.
After taking a good, hard look at both pieces of the Rider’s face, Simon squeezed his eyes shut to block out the rapidly weakening enthrallment and used his bloody fingers to push the Rider’s head back together. When he was certain he had everything lined up correctly, he turned his attention inward, focusing on the magic inside his own body: the living connection between soul and flesh that gave blood magic its power. His power, tyrannical and strong as he turned it on the Rider with a single command.
“Live.”
The word came out of him like a gong. The lingering magic of the Rider’s human soul thrashed in response, fighting his grip like a wounded animal. This only made Simon hold on tighter, squeezing until he could feel every drop of the Rider’s blood like it was his own.
This was an area of blood magic that even Victor didn’t toy with. Not because bringing people back from the dead was taboo, but because his master was simply too selfish to care about any life that wasn’t his. The closest he’d ever come was the first time he’d pulled Simon out of the coma, but Simon had spent a lot of time inside his death. He knew exactly what sort of collapse the Rider’s soul was experiencing as it detached from the physical anchor of his body, exactly where to grab to hold the crumbling walls of his death together.
It was an unnatural invasion, an unforgivable breach of another person’s mind, but Simon told himself he didn’t care. He pushed through the overwhelming wrongness, pulling the Rider’s soul back inch by inch up the bridge he’d made from his own blood. He did the same for the Rider’s body, commanding the broken cells to heal just as he’d done for his own in the hospital.
When both soul and body were under his total control, Simon shoved them back together. The gossamer he trusted to stick on its own, concentrating all of his attention on the Rider’s human parts: the cracked bones and bleeding flesh and the soul that bound them together into a person rather than a sack of meat. That was Simon’s specialty, and he worked faster than he’d ever worked before, weaving the dead man like a tapestry until the Rider’s severed skull fused back together, and he opened his glowing eyes with a gasp.
