He evaded my eagle, and my hawk, and my falcon, soaring high, clawing his way through the air. Away from me, my power—from Cassian and Azriel, holding the river and the majority of the city, away from Amren, using whatever dark power she possessed to send so many droves of them crashing down without visible injury.
None of my friends saw the Attor sailing up, sailing free.
It would fly back to Hybern—to the king. It had chosen to come here, to lead them. For spite. And I had no doubt that the golden, lioness-queen had suffered at its hands. As Clare had.
Where are you?
Rhys’s voice sounded distantly in my head, through the sliver in my shield.
WHERE ARE YOU?
The Attor was getting away. With each heartbeat, it flew higher and higher—
WHERE—
I sheathed the Illyrian blade and fighting knife through my belt and scrambled to pick up the arrows that had fallen on the street. Shot at my people. Ash arrows, coated in familiar greenish poison. Bloodbane.
I’m exactly where I need to be, I said to Rhys.
And then I winnowed into the sky.
CHAPTER
59
I winnowed to a nearby rooftop, an ash arrow clenched in either hand, scanning where the Attor was high above, flapping—
FEYRE.
I slammed a mental shield of adamant up against that voice; against him.
Not now. Not this moment.
I could vaguely feel him pounding against that shield. Roaring at it. But even he could not get in.
The Attor was mine.
In the distance, rushing toward me, toward Velaris, a mighty darkness devoured the world. Soldiers in its path did not emerge again.
My mate. Death incarnate. Night triumphant.
I spotted the Attor again, veering toward the sea, toward Hybern, still over the city.
I winnowed, throwing my awareness toward it like a net, spearing mind to mind, using the tether like a rope, leading me through time and distance and wind—
I latched onto the oily smear of its malice, pinpointing my being, my focus onto the core of it. A beacon of corruption and filth.
When I emerged from wind and shadow, I was right atop the Attor.
It shrieked, wings curving as I slammed into it. As I plunged those poisoned ash arrows through each wing. Right through the main muscle.
The Attor arched in pain, its forked tongue cleaving the air between us. The city was a blur below, the Sidra a mere stream from the height.
In the span of a heartbeat, I wrapped myself around the Attor. I became a living flame that burned everywhere I touched, became unbreakable as the adamant wall inside my mind.
Shrieking, the Attor thrashed against me—but its wings, with those arrows, with my grip …
Free fall.
Down into the world. Into blood and pain. The wind tore at us.
The Attor could not break free of my flaming grasp. Or from my poisoned arrows skewering its wings. Laming him. Its burning skin stung my nose.
As we fell, my dagger found its way into my hand.
The darkness consuming the horizon shot closer—as if spotting me.
Not yet.
Not yet.
I angled my dagger over the Attor’s bony, elongated rib cage. “This is for Rhys,” I hissed in its pointed ear.
The reverberation of steel on bone barked into my hand.
Silvery blood warmed my fingers. The Attor screamed.
I yanked out my dagger, blood flying up, splattering my face.
