Kyol latches onto my horror. He’s moving more quickly now, his veins filling with his own adrenaline, but he’ll never reach me. He’s too weak, and there are too many elari between us. If he tries, he’ll die.

We’ll die.

I force myself to breathe, to draw air into my lungs and let it out through my nose. I can’t worry about that right now. I have to worry about the false-blood, the so-called Taelith. He’s . . .

Oh, God.

My hand trembles on the hilt of my sword. I know who he is. Or rather, who he’s related to. I recognize the demonic spark in his silver eyes.

I try to keep my mind grounded in the present, but my vision narrows as if I’m in a tunnel, and all I can see is the image of the false-blood who first pulled me into this world. I’ve had enough nightmares about Thrain to know every feature on his face. There’s no mistaking the resemblance between him and the Taelith. They’re brothers. Or, perhaps, father or son. I have no idea how old Thrain was when we killed him, and I have no idea how old this fae is. All I know is he’s full of shit. He’s not Tar Sidhe. He’s a con man.

My mouth has gone dry. I swallow, trying to loosen my throat, when something moves in my peripheral vision. I turn my head, see two elari dragging a limp and bleeding body between them.

My heart stops beating. The world seems to go still as a fae yanks back the injured person’s head.

A chaos luster flashes across the man’s face. It’s not Aren. It’s . . .

It’s Shane.

I’m not sure when I moved, but Trev and I attack the Taelith simultaneously, Trev swinging high, me swinging low. Neither of us hits our target. The Taelith moves back with the uncanny speed of a fae. I hear his elari move forward, hear Lena yelling and Lorn cursing, but I’m already following up my attack with a lunge forward and another swipe at the false-blood’s legs. It’s a move I perfected when training with Kyol, but it’s a move Kyol always easily blocked. The false-blood blocks it aside as well, his sword suddenly appearing in his hand. And that’s when I slide into the secondary form Kyol taught me, the one I almost broke through his defenses with. I feint right, lift my left shoulder in a blatant tell, only I don’t swing my sword in a wide arc. I let it intercept the false-blood’s blade even as I spin to the left, letting go of the hilt of my sword with one hand so I can strike the false-blood in the jaw.

It’s a powerful hit, one that sends a sharp twinge through my elbow. I ignore it, try to slash my sword across his body, but his armor protects him. He grabs my wrist and twists.

My sword lands on the ground with a loud clatter, and it’s only when the echoes fade that I hear the struggle behind me. I yank my wrist free of the fae’s grip, then turn in time to see an elari carve a strip of flesh from Shane’s left arm.

He’s not unconscious. He screams. The two fae holding him keep him on his feet but immobile. Blood pours down his arm to the floor. The cut is so deep, it might as well be a canyon.

“Shane!” I yell, forgetting my fight with the false-blood to try to help him.

I don’t make it two steps before something slams into the back of my head. Then I’m being held facedown on the floor, black splotches swimming through my vision.

“You can’t help him,” Lorn says quietly. “Stay down. Stay still . . . Oh, damn.”

A shadow falls over me before Lorn’s weight suddenly vanishes. I turn my head in time to see him land hard on his back, then an elari fists a hand in my hair and lifts me to my feet. I try to free myself, try to elbow, kick, and head-butt the elari away, but he doesn’t let go.

I grab the elari’s wrist, struggling to get loose, when I see Lena pick up my dropped sword. She stalks toward an unworried false-blood, unworried because an elari raises his sword behind her.

I shout out a warning, but Trev’s thrown a fistful of fire. The elari’s scream pierces the air.

The elari holding me slams a fist into my face. Adrenaline blocks out the pain. I ram my knee into his stomach, then aim for his groin, but the bastard won’t let go of my hair.

Another fae charges Trev. Then another. Trev’s sword meets the first one’s attack, fire meets the second’s. Even to my eye, the flames are weaker this time. Trev’s too exhausted to wield his magic anymore.

But Lena’s not. She sweeps her hand through the air, and a blast of wind hits the false-blood. He staggers backward, and Lena’s on him the next instant, her sword slashing and stabbing and nearly breaking through his defenses.

For the first time, the elari are alarmed. They move to aid their Taelith. I use the opportunity to grab the arm of the fae holding me, putting my weight behind me and pulling him around as hard as I can.

My hair rips out, but he stumbles over the leg I kick out, and I throw him to the ground. Lena has my sword, but I still have my dagger. It’s in my hand then, sinking down through the elari’s exposed neck, quick as any fae could do it.

The elari dissolves into mist, and I look up. My gaze finds Lena. She’s fighting three elari, her back turned to the false-blood. Trev’s by her side, Lorn’s slowly getting to his feet, and Shane . . . He’s trying to lift himself off the floor. His hand slips in his own blood, and he collapses.

I scurry to my feet, grabbing a sword on the way to help Lena. She has to survive this. I have to get her out of here. I need to—

The false-blood steps behind her and lifts not his sword, but his hand. He rests it on her exposed shoulder, and she goes limp, collapsing to the floor.

“No!” Trev screams. He slays one of his opponents, hits the next one so hard the elari stumbles back under the blow, then he’s swinging at the false-blood, trying to get to Lena.

I’m yelling a warning and trying to get to him. Another elari steps behind him, sword raised and arcing through the air.

It keeps arcing, severing Trev’s head from his shoulders as if it’s cutting through air.

His body drops to the ground, pouring blood across the white tiles, and his head rolls until it hits the dais.

My body lurches as one painful, grief-filled sob bursts from my chest.

Lorn blocks my path with his arm. “We must buy time.”

My heart slams against my chest and my breaths come quick and shallow, but I nod, acknowledging Lorn’s words. Time. Time for Kyol to get here. Time for Lena to wake up and escape. Time for Aren to . . .

I close my eyes, draw in a slow breath so that I don’t fall apart. My mind knows that Aren’s dead, but my heart is clinging to the hope that he isn’t.

Drawing upon the strength and steadiness Kyol’s offering me through the life-bond, I open my eyes. The so-called Taelith stands in front of me, that cruel, Thrain-esque smile plastered on his face.

“I know who you are,” I say in Fae. My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It doesn’t crack or shake, but it feels hollow. Foreign.

“I’m Tar Sidhe,” the false-blood says. “Everyone shall know who I am soon.”

“Oh, that’s absolutely ridiculous,” Lorn says suddenly at my side.

The Taelith’s gaze shifts from me to the fae. “Tread carefully, Lorn. You’re alive only because I may find you useful.”

“You’ll find me quite useful,” he says, pulling on the cuffs of his no longer white sleeves. “But this fiction you’ve created and all the unnecessary violence”—he waves his hand in Shane’s direction—“is the reason why I couldn’t become one of your followers. You’re only antihuman when you have an audience.”