Vengeance Throne (The Callistra Chronicles #2)

TWENTY-FIVE

Chapter Twenty-Five

Warin Praeston had visited the Isles many times before. Sometimes under the cover of the night's darkest hour, sometimes at the turn of twilight, and sometimes before the morning could set in on the dawning sky.

It was always quick. He would make landing with the supplies he had promised and depart with another person on board. The humans would never emit a peep—by the time they were pulled away from the grasp of their family members, there would be a Devil's Breath collar around their necks, erasing their familiarity with the surroundings before the Isles were even out of view.

This time, it was sunset, the rays burning through the blue. That always made it harder for Devil's Breath to work. When last moments were shrouded with warmth instead of darkness, they refused to fade.

But today, the fae were not here for trading consorts.

Warin tightened his grip on the railing of the vessel, watching the toxic land loom into view. He knew every peak and trough of its outline. He knew immediately that something was not quite right.

"Pick up speed," he commanded, giving the direction to his secondary generals, who would take the news back to their own ships. "We attack first and fast. Don't give the humans time to recover."

The other fae flew off, their silver wings glinting in a blur of reflected light. Only one faery remained on Warin's leading vessel: his second in command with the hard mouth and even harder eyes.

"How much longer until we initiate battle?" the second asked, clearly impatient. As soon as magical attacks started from the front, the other vessels in the arrowhead formation would know to follow suit.

Warin squinted at the coast. He almost thought he only saw five figures, and something shiny catching the light as it moved around in the smallest infinity loop.

"We begin now," he said.

***

"Are you sure you can do this?" Circe asked.

Rhoden eyed her while he nocked the arrow, one eyebrow doing the slightest twitch skyward. That was probably the most attitude Rhoden was capable of.

"The only archer I came second to back in Eo was Pasiphae," Rhoden replied, amused. "I'll land true, don't fret."

When Lauha was banging a war drum a few feet back and using magic to echo it a thousand-fold until it sounded like an entire country was preparing to fight a war, when Unseelie ships were close enough for Circe to see the intricate, metal carvings along the edges of their vessels, when even the wind was blowing cold and sharp as night fell with a sudden vicious strike and bathed them in a darkness only mitigated by the silver moon, it was rather difficult not to fret.

"Averon," Circe snapped, summoning the attention of the human leader. She received a glare instead of a response, but it meant he could hear her, so she continued. "Move yourself further out of the way."

Thankfully, he seemed to listen, or perhaps he was simply complaining at a decibel too low for her to hear while he took a few steps back and crouched behind a bush of shore grains.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Yelena sighed. Almost absently, with her gaze trained on Averon, she laid a hand on Rhoden's shoulder reassuringly and gave it a squeeze. "You'll do great."

Yelena walked off, Rhoden continued nocking the arrow until he found its perfect fit, and Circe blinked slowly at what she had just seen occur, wondering what that had been about.