Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

The knife flew from Kit’s hand. It shot across the distance between him and the approaching mob and drove straight into Barnabas Hale’s shoulder. The snake-scaled warlock staggered backward and fell, yelling in pain.

“Kit!” Livvy said, in amazement; he could tell she wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing, but he’d never forgotten an Emerson quote that was a favorite of his father’s: When you strike at a king, you must kill him.

One warlock was more powerful than a pack of werewolves, and Barnabas was their leader. Two reasons to take him out of the fight. But there was no more time to think about that, because the Downworlders were on them.

“Umbriel!” shouted Livvy. A blazing blade shot from her hand. She was a whirl of motion, her saber training making her fast and graceful. She spun in a deadly circle, her hair whipping around her. She was a gorgeous blur of light and dark, and arcs of blood followed her blade.

Ty, wielding a shortsword, had backed up against the pillar of a stall, which was clever because the stall owner was shouting at the Downworlders to get back even as they advanced.

“Oi! Get away!” yelled the stall owner, and her wares began to fly through the air, bottles of tinctures splattering against the surprised faces of werewolves and vampires. Some of the substances seemed corrosive—at least one werewolf fell back with a yell, clutching a sizzling face.

Ty smiled, and despite everything that was happening, it made Kit want to smile, too. He filed it away as a memory to revisit later, considering that right now a massive werewolf with shoulders like flying buttresses was careening toward him. He reached out and yanked a pole free of Shade’s tent, causing the whole structure to tilt.

Kit swung out with the pole. It wasn’t the hardest metal, but it was flexible, like a massive whip. He heard the crunch of bone against skin as it slammed the leaping werewolf directly in the sternum. With a grunt of agony, the lycanthrope went sailing past Kit’s head.

Kit’s body thrummed with excitement. Maybe they could do it. Maybe the three of them could fight their way out of this. Maybe that was what it meant to have Heaven in your blood.

Livvy screamed.

Kit knocked a vampire out of his way with a vicious whack of the pole, and spun to see what had happened. One of the bottles flying through the air had smashed against her side. It was clearly an acidic substance—it was burning through the material of her clothes, and though her hand was clamped against the wound, Kit could see blood between her fingers.

She was still slashing out with her other hand, but the Downworlders, like sharks smelling blood, had turned away from Ty and Kit and were moving toward her. She hit out, spearing two, but without being able to properly shield her body, her circle of protection was shrinking. A vampire stepped nearer, licking his lips.

Kit began to run toward her. Ty was ahead of him, using his shortsword to hack his way through the crowd. Blood was pattering down on the ground at Livvy’s feet. Kit’s heart tensed with panic. She slumped just as Ty reached her and the two of them went down on the ground, Livvy in her brother’s arms. Umbriel clattered from her hand.

Kit staggered toward the two of them. He threw his pole aside, hitting several werewolves, and snatched up Livvy’s seraph blade.

Ty had put down the shortsword. He was holding his sister, who was unconscious, her hair spilling across his shoulders and chest. He had his stele out and was tracing a healing rune on her skin, though his hand was shaking and the rune was uneven.

Kit held up the blazing sword. The light of it made the Downworlders cringe back slightly, but he knew it wasn’t enough: They would press on, and tear him apart, and then they would tear apart Livvy and Ty. He saw Barnabas, his suit soaked in blood, leaning on the arm of a bodyguard. His eyes, fixed on Kit, were filled with hate.

There would be no mercy here.

A wolf leaped toward Kit. He raised Umbriel, swung it—and connected with nothing. The wolf had tumbled to the ground, as if shoved by an unseen hand.

There was a blast of wind. Kit’s gold hair blew across his face; he pushed it back with a hand stained red. The tents were rattling; more jars and bottles smashed. Blue lightning crackled, and a fork of it stabbed into the ground just in front of Barnabas.

“I see,” said a silky voice, “that I seem to have arrived here just in time.”

Walking toward them was a tall man with short, black, spiked hair. He was clearly a warlock: His eyes were cat’s eyes, with slit pupils, green and gold. He wore a charcoal trench coat dramatically lined with red that swept out behind him when he walked.

“Magnus Bane,” said Barnabas, with clear loathing. “The Ultimate Traitor.”

“Not my favorite nickname,” Magnus said, gently wiggling his fingers in Barnabas’s direction. “I prefer ‘Our Lord and Master’ or maybe ‘Unambiguously the Hottest.’ ”