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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T ristan and Ione scrambled down the aisle, Tristan reaching for the dagger sheathed at her hip. She stilled his wrist. “It won’t work from this side.” She gestured to the smooth stone. “There are no carvings.”

Tristan pressed his ear against the stone. In the hallway beyond, footsteps thumped and broadswords clanked. If he had to guess, nearly half the palace guards had come down to confront them. Shuffling sounded, as if the soldiers were stepping aside, followed by the clack of slow footsteps.

He’d recognize that gait anywhere. Unhurried. Self-assured. Arrogant, even.

A crazed laugh, bordering on hysterical, burst through the door. “There’s only one other person in Ethyrios besides me who could have entered this chamber.”

Tristan’s feathers shivered at the clarity, the proximity , of that voice.

“Hello, my dear brother,” Eamon said.

The last time Tristan had seen Eamon, he’d been taunting Tristan about how Tartarus was going to rip Cassandra to shreds. Taunting him about how he’d planned to sacrifice Tristan to shore up his own claim to the Crystal Throne.

If he were capable of it, Tristan would blast through this door and use his bare hands to peel Eamon’s flesh from his bones.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Eamon continued. “You managed to escape one cell only to end up locked in another. Is that bitch Ione with you? She’s been making such a hassle for my citizens.”

“Fuck you, Eamon!” Ione shouted and Tristan fought the urge to clap a hand over her mouth.

“She is with you,” Eamon chuckled. “My lucky day.”

“How many guards can you take?” Tristan whispered. “We should have suspected that he?—”

Ione pressed a hand against his chest. “There is something we can do…” she trailed off, searching his eyes. “A way to call for the Goddess’s assistance using the connection we forged during the Turning ceremony.”

“How?”

More shuffling sounded beyond the door followed by the metallic hiss of a broadsword being unsheathed. Eamon about to spill his own blood to open the chamber?

Shit, they had seconds .

“It doesn’t matter,” Tristan whisper-shouted. “Whatever it is, just?—”

Ione grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled their mouths together, pressing her body into his.

And though her lips were warm and soft, familiar even centuries later, he felt nothing. No passion. No stirring in his groin. No urge to wrap his arms around her.

He pushed her away with a soft snarl.

Then shock barreled through him as beads of water formed along his palm. He raised his hand, then looked to Ione, who wore a similar expression of astonishment. Lightning crackled at her fingertips and sparks flashed through her indigo eyes.

“What…” Tristan croaked out, “…what’s happening to us?”

“It worked,” Ione said, relief and awe softening her words. “I was worried that since you…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It worked .” She tucked her sack inside her cloak. “But we’ll only have the power temporarily. We can work together to create a storm.”

“I’ve never wielded water. How does it?—”

“Don’t think, just feel. Like how you call upon the wind.”

Tristan planted his feet and lifted his palms, reaching for his wind. It swirled around him in a thrashing cyclone, but other than a few small bursts of water, he couldn’t get a handle on the new magic.

“It’s not working!” he shouted over the roar of his wind and the sizzle of Ione’s lightning.

“Water responds best to peace and calm!” Ione yelled, honey-colored strands whipping across her face.

How the fuck was he supposed to find calm when his brother and a hallway full of Vasilikans and palace guards were waiting on the other side of that door?

A memory pierced his panic, one he could’ve sworn was sent by the Goddess herself.

Blue-gray eyes. Soft, supple skin. The scent of honey and rosewood. And a warm body moving atop him.

I’m yours, Tristan , a gentle voice whispered. For as little or as long as you want me. I’m yours.

His own response rang out through his head, his heart.

His soul.

For eternity.

A tidal wave crashed through him, filling his veins and bursting from his fingers. He mixed the streams with his gusts, crafting a cyclone of wind and cloud and water.

A wicked grin spread onto Ione’s face as she seeded it with lightning in the rapidly darkening chapel.

The door pushed inward, then slid aside.

And it was epically satisfying to see Eamon’s smugness distort into wide-eyed shock as he and his guards were blown backward, swords crashing and helmets clattering.

Torrents of rain, cracks of lightning, and gusts of wind filled the hallway, ripping at Tristan’s wings as he pulled Ione to his side and they rushed out of the chapel.

Eamon rose, his wet black clothes plastered against his body, and erected a wind-shield around himself to block the storm. His Vasilikans and a few Windrider guards did the same. The Beastrunners and Deathstalkers were unable to rise against the battering wind and thrashing rain.

“Follow them!” Eamon shouted.

Tristan and Ione tore down the hallway, feeding their magic into the storm at their backs.

A blast of energy whined through the din and Tristan turned back to see it ricochet off a gust and take down a Vasilikan brandishing a stun pistol.

They reached the wooden door they’d entered through, and Tristan shattered it with a concentrated blast of wind. He helped Ione through the jagged hole and into the stone passageways beyond.

He looked back over his shoulder. “Let’s end him,” he ground out. “No one else has to get hurt if we just kill Eamon now. Our storm?—”

Ione’s lips parted to answer, but before any sound came out, she was seized by the surge of a stun pistol. She crumpled, paralyzed, at his feet.

Tristan cursed low, watching as his brother and the guards clanked toward the blown out door. He couldn’t fight them off alone and protect Ione.

He swore again, then hauled her over his shoulder and raced through the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the palace. Behind him, the storm fizzled while ahead, light began to glow.

The cave entrance. And just beyond, their boat.

He glanced over his shoulder, wiping rain from his eyes. Eamon and four guards were right on his heels.

Tristan burst out of the cave and tossed Ione into the boat. He redirected his wind into the water, a makeshift motor that powered their progress as he guided the little boat through the canal and into the open waters of Lake Phaeban.

The cuff at his wrist heated the moment they passed through the shield.

Brother! a voice roared into Tristan’s ear via windwhisper.

Eamon stood on the shore hundreds of feet away, wings splayed, dark hair in disarray. Far enough away that neither he nor his guards would be able to reach Tristan before the cuff could portal him back to Lebaedia. Eamon seemed to discern as much as he whispered furiously into his palm, then waved over another message.

Tristan pulled Ione into his arms as his brother’s words floated into his mind.

I hope you’ve prepared for this particular ending.

There was a manic edge to the message, but in typical Eamon fashion, it was cryptic fucking nonsense.

Tristan chose not to respond. At least not with words.

A crazed smile burst across his face as he lifted his middle finger to his brother.

Then tapped the opal on his cuff and disappeared in a flash of rainbow light.