Page 62 of Kingdom of Chaos (Creatures of Chaos #2)

Thirty-Nine

I should have been prepared for Kerrim’s attack, but I don’t get my faelight shield up fast enough and take a searing bolt of magic straight to the ribs.

The impact knocks the wind from me and launches me through the air. I slam to the ground, skidding across dirt and leaves before coming to a jarring stop, every breath a struggle as pain radiates through my ribs.

Kerrim strides toward me and halts. His eyes narrow, glinting with sudden, sharp confusion.

“Well, well,” he says slowly, as if tasting the realization on his tongue. “Magic?”

His gaze drops to my hands, still faintly glowing with residual faelight. “You’re not supposed to have magic.”

The shock is fleeting. His expression hardens. “Doesn’t matter. You can light up like a star for all I care. The dagger won’t be mine until you’re out of the picture.” He lifts Shadow Striker, its black blade humming with energy. “Let’s not drag this out.”

I force myself to my feet, breath ragged, every nerve on fire.

My own magic crackles at my fingertips, unsteady but ready.

Drawing on the amplification powers of my pendant like Talon taught me, I shove my hand out and send a spear of shadow straight at him.

He dodges, but not fast enough. It clips his shoulder, spinning him half a step.

He recovers, and suddenly he’s right in front of me, swinging the dagger in a downward arc. I throw up my shield just in time. The impact flares white-hot, and pain lances through my arms as I’m driven back.

“Impressive,” he sneers, circling me like a predator. “But regardless of what magic you must have inherited from the former wielder, it won’t be enough. I have more.”

I stretch a hand to the side and the shadows nearby twitch, then surge.

They slither across the ground like living tendrils, twisting into jagged shapes that rise and lash in a wide arc, carving deep grooves into the dirt at my feet.

One coils toward Kerrim’s boot before dissipating in a sharp crack of energy.

“You sure about that?” I ask, my voice low and steady.

Then I lunge.

Our magic collides midair, clashing torrents of power that explode between us with a thunderclap. The shockwave sends both of us flying in opposite directions.

I hit the ground hard, coughing, but scramble to my feet.

Kerrim is already on the move again, faster than I remember, stronger than I expected. I duck under a swipe of his blade and drive a burst of fire into his chest at close range. He grunts, stumbling, smoke curling off his jacket.

“You’re better than I gave you credit for,” he snarls, eyes gleaming. “But it won’t save you.”

We clash again—weapons, fists, magic—locked in a brutal rhythm. I can feel myself tiring, every attack slower, every dodge narrower. I don’t even have an opportunity to try to disarm Kerrim, because I’m fighting for my life. Using this much magic is tiring me faster than I expected.

I’m holding my own. But just barely.

And he knows it.

He grins, the expression wild and sharp, and says, “Let’s see how long you can last.”