Page 110 of Lucifer's Mirror

I peer up. Trystan is staring down at me, eyes narrowed.

Bastard.

I knew he was up to something. But what?

“Get up,” he snarls. “You need to come with me.”

Never in a million years.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

His expression hardens, and he takes a step closer, the threat in his eyes unmistakable. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

My mind is racing. No way am I going anywhere with him. He’s bigger than me, and I’m not sure I can take him, but I have my sword, and I know how to use it. I’m not giving up without a fight.

“So youdidtell Khaosti’s father about me?” I say.

He smirks down at me and shakes his head. “Still so naïve.”

I frown. What does he mean by that? I’m about to ask when he nudges me, not gently, with his boot, and I bite back a growl.

“Get up,” he repeats and nudges me again. Harder this time.

I push myself slowly to my feet, then turn to face him. “I thought you weren’t my enemy?” I say.

He’s dressed for traveling, a cloak over his shoulders, a sword at his back—but at least it’s still sheathed. I’ve never seen him armed before, and it’s not an improvement.

I wonder if screaming will help. But I ran too far and too fast, and now I’m on my own.

I take a deep breath, then I reach back and draw Nightfall from her scabbard. She glows crimson in the dying light. I hold her steady.

My heart races as I face Trystan. “Go fuck yourself.”

He has a malicious grin on his face, as though he’s looking forward to beating the shit out of me. The setting sun paints a macabre glow on his face, casting shadows that dance with the anticipation of violence. He draws his own sword. It’s bigger than mine.

Hecate always says that the way to lose a fight is to imagine it happening. You can lose before you even make the first move.

So I imagine slicing his smug head off.

Trystan lunges at me with a vicious swing of his sword, but I deftly parry the attack, the clash of steel echoing in the quiet night. I might be small in stature, but I’m quick on my feet, and I dance around him, my movements fluid and graceful. I’m fucking good; my every strike is calculated and precise. He’s getting pissed.

Despite Trystan’s size and brute force, my superior skill with the blade is obvious. I sidestep his attacks with ease, my sword finding its mark on his defenses. While I’m not beating him, I am holding my own. He’s fueled by rage and desperation, fighting with a savage determination, his attacks fiercer, as though he thinks he can beat me by brute force. But he’s making mistakes.

As the battle rages on, I experience a surge of confidence. Maybe I can beat him. I put everything into the fight—all my training, all my skill—until we’re in a deadly dance that keeps Trystan on the defensive. I manage a slice, and blood wells from his left shoulder. Rage distorts his face.

Then suddenly, he’s on the attack. He pushes forward with a series of almost wild swings, his movements random. Has he realized he can’t win? That he underestimated me? That he’s losing blood, and I just need to persevere, and he will lose? I back up, giving way while I think of how I can end this. I need something to distract him, then I can make what I hope will be a final move, piercing his black heart. I’ve never killed anyone before, and I wonder if I’ll actually be able to deliver a killing blow.

I take another step back, and a strange tingle runs through my body. In that moment, I realize the huge mistake I’ve made.

I’m outside the wards.

Pain drives into my skull, and I stagger back. Then I straighten and swing Nightfall. I can still do this. Just concentrate. Finish the fight and get back to safety before anything else realizes I’m out here.

Except it’s already too late. I’ve miscalculated terribly.

The last of the light is nearly gone, and I almost don’t notice the encroaching shadows. But they’re moving. Drawing closer. Surrounding us. Their red eyes gleam in the darkening night.

Terror grabs me by the throat, and I stumble and almost fall. I forget Trystan and turn to face this new enemy. Were they waiting for me? Hoping for the chance that I would appear? Hecate said they can sense me.