Page 74 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Isaac sank his fangs into his own wrist, pulled the flesh free so that his blood welled to the surface—dark, nearly black, thick and viscous as it rose to the surface.

Isaac smeared his blood in the waiting gap, closing the circle around himself, mingling their power into the foundation of the ward.

“It’s up to you, now,” Isaac slurred, the words coming out garbled as his jaw cracked and distended, but Samuel recognized the comfort there, nonetheless.

Closing his eyes, he reached for the magic inside him, still accessible, even as the dark tendrils of his power tried to grow over it, ivy crawling up the walls, roots digging into every crack and crevice they could find.

He pulled them aside, a slow and arduous process, as they caught like slime in his hands, but it was enough.

Power rushed through him like a fire, spiraling out from deep within as it raced down each vein and artery, leaving him buzzing like he was made of the pure energy of the sun.

It was all-consuming, this magic inside of him, but he didn’t let it overwhelm him, like the last time he and Isaac had been together like this, when witch fire burned rampant around him, an attempt to burn away everything Isaac had built.

No, this time Samuel held the control, and he let the magic seep into his palm, poking at the torn flesh as he willed it to heal.

The edges of the wound reached for each other, the muscle knitting itself back together before the skin regrew, delicate and unblemished, his hand made whole as if the wound had never been there at all.

The magic still pressed at him, pushing from the inside out, desperate to be used now that it was awakened.

He let it rush from him into the line of blood, the catalyst lit as the ward shuddered to life, rising up in a sheet of pure energy from floor to ceiling, wrapping Isaac in a circle of protection that only they could cross.

“Well done,” Isaac breathed. “I didn’t see it before, but Shan was right. You are so powerful.”

Samuel opened his eyes to see the magic he had done, shining between them. It shimmered like the distortion of heat on a sweltering summer day, the stain in the air a sign of his inexperience. But they did not need it to have finesse—they just needed it to work.

And with the warmth running off it in waves of intensity that felt like they would burn the clothes from his body, Samuel knew that he had succeeded at that, at least. “Now what?”

“Now, we begin.” Isaac took a deep breath, and then the room was filled with the hideous crunch of bones snapping, Isaac lurching forward to rest his hands on his knees as his spine cracked.

The claws on his hands turned sharper, joints popping as they curled in, great things for ripping and tearing—for shredding skin to gain access to the meat below.

Gagging, Isaac wrenched his jaw open further, an impossible amount, as that tongue unfurled to hang between his breasts, spit dripping as it twitched forward, searching for his next meal.

Great protrusions moved under the skin of his back, surging forward until the skin tore, dark wings rising as they flapped on the air.

A scream of pain tore through him as he leaned back, the skin of his stomach pulling apart, growing thin and translucent, like dough pulled apart and held to the light.

The outline of his guts was stark and shocking until the rip pulled far enough for them to spill out, a tangle of blood and tubes, as Isaac’s upper half tore from his body, the wings carrying him up to the ceiling.

Samuel hadn’t even realized he had fallen to his knees once again, a prayer caught on his lips as he saw, for the first time, the true extent of what Isaac had made of himself.

The manananggal in the flesh.

It was monstrous, yes, but it was also grotesquely beautiful, awe inspiring in a way that felt primal. Isaac had seized control of magic in a way that defied the limits of what both the Eternal King and humanity allowed, becoming the very terror that they needed, taking that sacrifice on.

And Samuel would always love him for it.

Isaac moved through the ward, the magic crackling on his skin as it let him pass, lurching towards the open window at the back of the room. He cast one last look over his shoulder, dipped his head, and flung himself into the sky.

It was begun.

And in the heart of this room, this secret place, Isaac had left his lower half, torn free from his body, protected by a ward that contained all of Samuel’s might.

The myths said that the manananggal couldn’t be killed while his lower half remained safe, and as long as he could return to it and re-form, he would survive.

Samuel prayed that it was true, but this much, at least, he could guarantee.

None but him or Isaac would touch his vulnerable remains.

But the day was only getting started, and he had to meet the others for the next phase of the attack. Anton would already be moving through the streets around the Treasury, ready to take advantage of the chaos, and Samuel had to be there as well.

Ensuring that the King and the Guard did not catch him, proving that he wasn’t part of this attack.