Shards of a Broken Heart (Witchfire 4)

Chapter 3 - Green Eyes

CHANCE

Green eyes. His eyes.

London.

I tackled the burning man into the shade, ignoring the prickling blister of my own melting skin as I put out the fire on his clothes, his face. A gale-force wind roared through the cavity in my chest, somehow deafening in its loudness. I didn't know what to think or feel, if this was even real; how many nights had I relived the nightmare of what was supposed to be my execution? The ceremonial sword had dispatched him with brutal efficiency, denying the both of us his final words.

The worst part was that London thought he was saving me. In reality, I was seconds away from delivering my own final blow, from unleashing a blast of dominance that would bring the very building to its knees.

I'd evaporated everyone who opposed me in an instant, acting as judge, jury and executioner without even a hint of due process. I'd proven myself the stronger tyrant by sawing off Ford Nightshade's head with the very shackles he'd clapped on my wrists, and yet London in his endearing, infuriating folly had thought I was the one who needed saving. That I was the one who deserved to live, when everything he did was to bring others joy or spare others pain.

I'd come to hate him for it in the cold, empty months that followed. But now that he was here, flesh and blood and bone in my grasp... tears flooded my eyes as I cupped his face, startled by how cold his skin had become.

"Where the fuck were you?" I sobbed, fingers digging into his cheeks. His burns were already healing, and I fought the urge to thank some higher power for it, knowing I'd kill such a being for making him suffer in the first place.

His face went cold. "You almost had me for a second," he whispered, grabbing my wrists. My fingers went purple as blood struggled to push through my veins. "Chance never cries."

It was baffling, especially considering I had cried in front of him before, but London's hands wrapped around my throat before I could argue. They squeezed with bruising force, thumbs digging into my windpipe. Pressure ballooned in my skull and I felt a stab of panic as my eyes started to bug out of my head. There was something monstrous and alien in his expression, like he was wringing out a washcloth instead of wringing the life from my neck.

He was going to kill me.

And it wasn't even for food. His fangs were out, yes, but they never made a pass at my throat. There was something primal about them now, more like the tusks of a sabre-tooth tiger than the elegant fangs of a cat. They jutted from his upper lip and came to a rest halfway down his chin. Wardon has the same fangs, I realised, wondering if they came part and parcel with his newly minted immortality.

My tongue swelled in my mouth, bright spots winging through my vision like birds on high. Still I did not act; I'd spent so long trying to bring him back that I couldn't fathom trying to hurt him now, even though my life depended on it. The world darkened, but a light started to strain through his marble skin. I willed his aura to come into focus, snatching at the iridescent green that had comforted me on the threshold of death six months ago, one fateful night in the aquarium.

London's green heart was rotting. His aura hovered about him like a dark miasma of power, his own little pocket of deepest night, choking off the feeble light pulsing at its core. I froze at the implications. He still possesses some form of magic! How it had survived the transition from life to death was beyond my ability to fathom, but the dangers were perfectly clear. There was more energy at his disposal than ever before, and he was utterly unhinged.

"Enough," I choked out, digging my claws into his shoulder. It was like trying to push pins through leather, but they eventually pierced his skin, forcing their way through the compact muscle beneath. It was more defined than the last time we'd met, as if he'd been hitting the gym in the last six months. What the hell had he been eating?