“Something … better?” Evanne squinted. “Are they turning around? It looks like those Elder demons are coming back here.”

  “That’ll be Ormeon. She’s great and all, but⁠—”

  “That’s Ormeon? The one all the stories are about?”

  He looked hurt. “The stories are only about the dragon?”

  “Dragons are cool.”

  “She’d love to meet you at a better time.” He turned back to her. “What’s your plan?”

  “Style.”

  “I’m on board,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “This isn’t style,” Jade said. “This is terrifying.”

  “Hush,” her brother said. “How often do you get to ride a crashing sky city into an ancient building full of demon terrors?”

  “That’s the whole ‘terrifying’ part.”

  The lordling ignored them, turning from the vista of a rapidly approaching castle to face the throng of people on Dancing in the Storm’s deck. It was the remains of the people they’d ‘rescued’ from Hollyhead and Wandermere. They all looked as terrified as Jade. He raised his arms as if to speak, so Evanne clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got this.”

  “Speeches are my thing.”

  “Step aside, old man.” She stood by Meriwether’s side, back to the castle. “Friends, in mere moments this city will crash into that building.” She pointed behind her without looking. “Within, a demon-possessed horde of monsters fights the last Tresward in the world. She’s doing great,” she slipped in as a few concerned glances were shared. “The thing to focus on is you.”

  “Us?” It was the blacksmith, Turner.

  “You,” she nodded. “We’re going to ride this ship right down the throat of the enemy castle. I’m going to make a lot of noise. Meriwether will hustle you down the breach and outside to where it’s safe.”

  “I’m waiting for the style part,” Meriwether murmured.

  “You’ll know it when you see it,” she promised.

  “I don’t want to die a needless death,” Turner said. It was a simple statement, heavy with honesty.

  “Do you want to live a coward?” Amber strode forward. “My sister and I have come right to the heart of the devil’s keep to see the world saved. We stand with you, and against tyranny.”

  “We do?” Jade’s voice was a whisper.

  “You miss my point,” the blacksmith said. “I’m not running. We’ve got an ancient’s living city. It may crash⁠—”

  “It’s definitely going to crash,” Evanne said.

  “But we can get it flying again. Other people did it, and so can we. I don’t want to flee. You just die tired. I want to fight.” He clenched his strong fists. “You can get the others out, but I’m swinging.”

  “Ah,” Meriwether said. “I see the style, now.”

  I need to get down there. Evanne jumped from the side of the city. The massive structure was perilously close to impacting the castle. The demon lords shouldered their way back in through the double doors. The gate was now proper fucked but created a wonderful aperture. She sailed through, and into madness.

  She saw Mama first, Vertiline’s Light a blazing inferno. And there’s Papa. Armitage waited on her right. On the opposite side—praise the Three—was Tarragon, the once-fairy standing with fists held in a boxer’s stance. By her feet was the still form of Amir.

  Oh, no.

  Evanne could see all his starlight was gone.

  She soared past the grasping claws of an Elder demon lord, its maw wide and angry, and sent a couple spheres to pester it. They bounced off but gave it something to fret over other than snaring her. She soared above the throng, a horde of black-armoured troops facing Vertiline and her two honour guards.

  Looks like I arrived just in time.

  At the far end of the room was an ancient Feybrind, with Sight of Day facing him and standing ready. Her friend’s tail gave a single lash, but otherwise he was still. By their feet, the fallen Sands Apart, and Evanne feared her dead, but the armour didn’t think so. While she’d been gawking, it put a map of the room in her mind and catalogued a thousand different bodies for her. It wasn’t a picture; she just knew where everyone was, the living, the dead, and the big presences of the Elder demons. The armour thought Sands Apart was alive in the same way it told her Amir was dead. A big-ass gate was at the far end, swirling with pitch, purple runes about the edge.

  By the gate, the Raven Queen stood, pale, alone, back to the portal. She must have cracked it open. Evanne didn’t spare a thought for why, just headed right for the ancient Feybrind, who was pointing a weapon at Sight of Day. That won’t do. She landed right between the Feybrind as the ancient one fired. Her armour spun metal spheres in a blur. They caught the beam from the enemy’s weapon, spitting molten flame about her like flung motes of lava.

  The ancient Feybrind looked at her, his weapon, then back to her. “I must have that armour.”

  “You can have it when I’m dead.” Evanne raised her fists in a mirror of Tarragon’s stance, because she was going to beat this fool bloody. “Let’s dance.”

  “You should know the enemy wears a device that will kill us all if he dies,” Morgan said.

  “Useful to know.” Evanne lowered her arms. “How?”

  “A terrible weapon from above.”

  “Got it,” Evanne said.

  The ancient Feybrind took a step forward. “I will kill your friends while you watch.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  The entire side of the room exploded inward as Dancing in the Storm impacted the keep. The room shook like the inside of a baby’s rattle. Evanne took flight to avoid falling. She hovered while everyone about her dropped like skittles. Even Sight of Day fell. I never thought I’d see a Feybrind lose their footing. This truly is the end of days. “Because of that.”

  Her voice was drowned out in the tremendous noise of the rock walls falling inward. Everything from fist-sized stones to boulders the size of a person tumbled inside. Some of the enemies facing Mama, Papa, and Tarragon were crushed by rocks, but most were still alive.

  The belly of Dancing in the Storm hung above them, the ancient city having enough go-juice to remain airborne, if only just. She picked out the figure of the Oracle giving her a cheeky wave, then the blacksmith Turner jumped over the side, scrambling down the rubble slope, hammer in hand.

  A moment later, what looked like the rest of the city’s people surged over the side, yelling various war cries, some holding proper steel, but most with makeshift weapons. Evanne saw a woman with a chair leg, and beside her, a man with a broom handle. The enemy in the room drew blades. That doesn’t seem fair.

  The Elder demons seemed torn between heading for Evanne by the gate, and the plumpness of the fallen city. Their eyes were greedy and bright. Then they did exactly what Evanne would have done, and split up. One went for Vertiline, another for the city, and two for Evanne. I should be honoured. The ancient Feybrind was up and about again, so she plucked his weapon from him, the armour’s speed and strength making it trivial. She pointed it at the leading demon and fired. The ember lance hit the gargantuan creature, carving a glowing line across its hide, but spilling no blood. She looked at the weapon in astonishment. “What a piece of junk!”

  “If it were that simple, we wouldn’t have had a problem with them.” Hitch bloomed before her. “Evanne, you must run.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I died,” he said flatly. “This is how I died.”

  “There must be another way.” The demons gathered speed, as their strides shook the ground.

  “There is no other way. Please, Evanne.” His not-eyes were wide, and desperate. “I can’t lose you.”

  The roof above them crunched open, a slab of rock the size of a building falling in and hitting the lead demon lord. It staggered, slowing its roll, but didn’t fall. The one behind it slowed too, both looking up. Evanne followed their gaze, right into an emberfire grin. //GENEVE SAYS I SHOULDN’T PLAY WITH MY FOOD, YET HERE WE ARE.//

  Ormeon’s voice was immense, the sound of birthing mountains and dying stars. Myryntir sounded magnificent, but this one sounded … real. Like she displaced the world by being in it. The big red dragon scraped through the hole she’d made, her wings wide to slow her descent, and crunched between Evanne and the demon lords. Hitch goggled. “Okay, maybe there is another way.”

  “Can she beat them?”

  “Rulbenen couldn’t.”

  “Can she beat them?”

  Hitch’s not-eyes narrowed. “She looks pretty angry.”

  Lightning slammed into the leading demon lord. Evanne’s visor went midnight black for a hot second before clearing. Myryntir slithered through the gap in the roof, settling beside Ormeon. //IS THIS LUNCH?//

  Ormeon gave the blue dragon a little side-eye. //YOU’RE TOO DAMN PRETTY FOR THIS FIGHT.//

  He looked startled, slender neck snaking up and back into a question mark. //YOU THINK I’M PRETTY?//

  The leading demon lord recovered its poise, then grated a laugh like thunder dying. “YOUR MAKERS MADE YOU WEAK, TINY WORM.”

  Myryntir’s eyes narrowed. //ARE THEY INVINCIBLE?//

  Ormeon grinned hot smoky ash, slipping left, muscles rippling under dragonscale armour. //THEY LIKE TO THINK SO, RIGHT UP TO THE END.// Her eyes glowed like tiny apertures into the forge of the sun. //THEY WOULDN’T BE RUNNING IF IT WERE TRUE. THIS LARDASS IS ATERREGIS, THE BLACK KING.// Here, a dragony chuckle. //IT’S A NAME MEANT TO INSPIRE FEAR. I THINK IT SOUNDS CLICHÉ, A DOLLAR STORE HAND-ME-DOWN WORN THIN THROUGH OVERUSE.//

  “Now’s the time to run,” Hitch said. “Flee, while the dragons are tanking the demon lords.”

  “If I go, then Mama will start some shit, and I don’t think she’s up to four demon lords.” Evanne shifted her shoulders, the armour heavier than she expected. It feels like duty.

  Aterregis’ gaze swivelled to the spectre, then locked on Evanne. “YOU ARE THE ONE.”

  “Of course,” Evanne said. “But you need to ask yourself, the one of what?”

  The demon lord blinked. “WHAT?”

  “That’s what I said.” Evanne pushed past Hitch, ignoring the pleading in his not-eyes. “See, your whole thing,” she waved the whatever-it-was away dismissively, “is world domination. Enslavement. Ruin for the sake of it.”

  Aterregis took a step forward, the room shaking. Ormeon’s jaws widened, a warning hiss the demon lord ignored. “AND YOU ARE THE KEY THAT UNLOCKS THE PORTAL FOR ALL.”

  “No, that’s her.” Evanne pointed to Morgan.

  Morgan’s eyes widened. “Don’t bring me into this.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Evanne’s feet took her closer to the dragons, and by association, the demon lords. The people from the fallen sky city were scrambling down the slope of fallen rock, some already making a loose ragged line at the base. Possessed Vide were shifting foot to foot, weapons ready. “See, this is all about to go to shit. Those assholes,” she pointed to the Vide, “are going to rush them,” her arm moved to the villagers from Hollyhead, “which means she,” here she pointed to Vertiline, “will rush in like a murder hobo, and everything fails.”

  Another demon lord crept closer. “SHE MAKES A GOOD POINT. FEWER SOULS FOR THE REAPING.”

  “EVER THE PESSIMIST, VENENARUM.” Aterregis ignored the demon lord Venenarum, eyes still on Evanne. “THE UNDYING QUEEN THINKS THIS IS ALL YOUR WORLD HOLDS.”

  “Undying Queen? Really?” Evanne cast a glance at Ormeon. “Clichéd and trite.”

  //I TOLD YOU.//

  “Evanne!” Vertiline straightened from her guard position. “What are you doing?”

  “Poking the bear,” Evanne called back. “You protect the living, and I will see to those not yet born.”

  A third demon lord sidled next to Venenarum. “YOU WEAR ARMOUR THAT PROTECTS NEITHER LIVING NOR DEAD. IT IS PAPER TO OUR WRATH.”

  “Let me guess: you’re Fuckface, the Keeper of Badness,” Evanne said.

  “You can’t leave, Evanne.” Vertiline’s voice was hoarse. Evanne imagined Mama trying to work out how to save Evanne if she flew away with a demon on her tail. “Please.”

  Evanne took a final step past Ormeon’s warding bulk and ran a hand down Myryntir’s foreleg. Ormeon’s right. He’s too damn pretty. Not like me. Half-made, and poorly so. Not one thing or the other. But made just right for this fucking armour. Made just right for one more song. She eyed Armitage, her Papa’s hands clenched around a hammer, his shoulders rigid. They can’t fight with me here. They can’t protect those who need it most. Evanne turned her visor to Tarragon. “For the living.”

  Tarragon mouthed, Evanne, no. Her hands were empty of magic swords. Her eyes were full of fear.

  Evanne turned away from Tarragon, striding toward Aterregis. Staring the motherfucker right in his twisted face. “Gods, but you’re ugly.”

  “AND I SEE YOU. BROKEN. FEEBLE. A WEAK HEART. HAVE YOU COME TO BE THE FIRST SACRIFICE?” He raised a fist, ready to strike.

  Bring the rain. She told the armour that now, right NOW was the time, and the magnetic arbalest whined into gear, spitting a hail of metal spheres at Aterregis. The demon roared, bringing that house-sized fist down on her, but the stardrive at her back blazed with light, and she was airborne, already moving faster than the swiftest hawk.

  Aterregis roared, black tendrils snaking after her, but Evanne was on the wind. The magnetic arbalest split its fire between Aterregis and the wall ahead of her. It slammed spheres into the keep’s stone wall. She hurtled toward the rock barrier, the armour telling her useless things like structural integrity holding and impact imminent before she hushed it. Evanne thought, trust me.

  The armour let her know it did not, but it redoubled its efforts on the exterior wall. She hit, blasting through into the sunlight outside, the demon lords Aterregis and Venenarum on her tail.

  For the living.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  My baby is going to die. The gut feel punched Vertiline harder than anything in her life. Her sword point dipped, shield lowering as the one joyful thing she’d been able to do for the world flew out through the wall, demon lords in tow. Vertiline tried to remember anything she’d heard about Aterregis or Venenarum. Black King. Undying Queen. Just names for death, and she could do nothing about it.

  A hand gripped her arm. Despite the metal of her armour, she felt strength there, the kind that could pulverise rock. “Tilly. We’ve got work to do.”

  Armitage. My love. She turned to him. “Our little girl.”

  “Yeah, she’s fucked right off through the wall. I saw it. Blood on the sands, maybe.” He jiggled her arm for emphasis, a move that from another man would have seen a hand severed, but from him it was look here, this shit’s important. Not a lack of respect, but the deepest kind. He pointed her to the villagers massing across the chamber. “Those people are all going to die.”

  “And our girl?”

  “Through the wall. Or did you miss that? Tilly.” He got right in her grill. “We can’t help her. Not from here. Not like this.” A man wearing Vide black got close enough to lunge with a spear. Armitage took it from him, snapping the haft over his knee, then stabbed the broken shaft through the man’s neck, then almost as an afterthought stuck the spear head through an eye socket. “More of these fuckers are going to cause trouble. They’ve got demons in ‘em. Real monsters, like nothing you runts ever magicked up.”

  Vertiline turned to the two remaining demon lords. They were massive, towering storeys above them all. Fat from taking the best food—best not to think about what that is—each with a huge weapon. The one closest to the main exit held a chain whip so large no ship could use it as an anchor without sinking. The one closest to the portal held a giant club of rude wood, gnarled, with black spikes hammered through. The chain whip was corroded, the spikes coated in dried gore. The monsters are used to their work.

  “High Justiciar.” The barest stammer shook Tarragon’s words. I’d forgotten she was here. Without Requiem’s radiance, Tarragon was just like the rest of them. A woman, strong in body and mind, but not fit to fight a demon lord. “What do we do?”

  There is but one here ready for this challenge. Vertiline turned to the demon-ridden army and their mighty masters. “By Cophine of the breaking dawn, Ikmae of the shattering day, and Khiton of the ending night, I call you to challenge, creatures. You will face me.”

  The demon lords, who didn’t appear to have taken much notice of Vertiline, Armitage, and Tarragon, turned at the names of the Three. With surprising speed, the one holding the chain whip took two lumbering strides closer. Its face was used to cruelty, and she saw smug glee hiding in there too. “YOU SAY THEIR NAMES, BUT YOU DO NOT BELIEVE.”

  Vertiline raised an eyebrow. “I am the High Justiciar of the Tresward. I embody belief.”

  The other lord chuckled like a landslide. “TITLES MEAN NOTHING. YOU CAN CARRY ALL THE SILVER OR GOLD BARS YOU LIKE. PEOPLE CAN RESPECT THE LIGHT. BUT YOU DON’T. WASN’T IT YOU THAT BANISHED THEM FROM THIS WORLD?”

  Vertiline stalked closer, the Vide shuffling back. “You speak of things you understand poorly. Give me your names so I may record them in the annals of the fallen.”

  “IT WANTS TO KNOW US,” said Chain Whip. “BETTER THAT IT KNOWS ITSELF.”

  “WHAT HARM, COUSIN?” The club whooshed air as the colossus shouldered the weapon.

  The grotesque monster coiled its whip with the clanking of prison chains used to cage gods. “HIGH JUSTICIAR VERTILINE, YOU MAY KNOW ME AS MORSORACHIUS, THE ABYSSAL DOMINUS. MY … COLLEAGUE IS TENEBRICOR, THE INFERNAL ARCHON.”

  It knows me. How does it know me? Vertiline kept her voice steady. “Morsorachius and Tenebricor, the people will remember how you fell in agony and despair for putting foot on our world.”