The pale woman spoke first, breaking into a simpering smile. “Dragon Slayer.”
“A Rainha Flor-Cadaver.”
The pale woman cocked her head and pushed out her lower lip. “You always break up my funnest games. Why can’t I have the phoenix?”
“You wanna play?” The redhead twisted the massive sword with a roll of her wrist, the flames in her skin jumping at the movement. “That’s why I’m here.”
The pale woman’s face lost all artifice, and pure and simple hate shone from her as her eyes rose to the swordswoman’s hair. “I so despise red,” and the words were a curse, spat with deepest loathing. She held up her hand, Nalah’s ring encircling one pale finger. “Tell Reign next time to come himself and not send anything as pathetic as a Skin Dweller to do his dirty work.” And she and the child disappeared, Nalah’s ring and all magic connected to her going with them.
The fire on the redhead’s skin faded until her arm was bare, her power pulling closer, and once she sheathed her sword, Esh felt nothing further from her. She turned, taking them in. “Ais, what’s the story?” She walked towards them, her gaze falling to the slashes across the elf’s chest. “Immediate care?”
Aislynn shook her head. “I will be well soon enough, Fallon. There is nothing magic about this. That child would not poison the weapon with magical means or other, not when the purpose is to inflict pain.”
Fallon nodded, then turned her attention to him. He stepped in front of Nalah in an instinctive move. Yeah, she’d saved them, but that much power – it was impossible to simply trust.
“Calm down, fighter boy. I’ve known her five years and haven’t done anything more than subject her to Laire’s fashion critiques.” After saying that, though, she motioned to Nalah with her hand, asking permission with the gesture. He moved away in answer, and she crouched down to run her hand over Nalah’s face much as the elf had earlier. Nalah continued to cry, the sound low and piteous.
“Fucking pale-ass bitch.” Fallon’s voice was low, the volume and tone suggesting she was more talking to herself. The next words were louder and directed at them. “Her shields are smashed and her psychic landscape is fried. I’m amazed she lasted this long, considering she’s been dealing with the Pale Lady the entire Tour.”
“And how do we fix it?”
After placing her hand on Nalah’s forehead and sweeping her hair back, Fallon rose, all predatory grace. “We can’t. Shields are too personal, and it’s instinctive to fight against any attempt to mess with them. Only someone she loves could try without getting pulled into the chaos that’s her mind right now. Which means you gotta go in and do it.”
“I don’t know if she-” Esh stopped the sentence. Fuck if it mattered if Nalah loved him. No one else was a possibility, and it didn’t sound as if she could get worse. He was with her until the end. “What do I need to do?”
Fallon’s eyes gleamed bright, and a jab of adrenaline lined with unease rode through him. He knew this look – it was what he’d heard snatches of conversation about, opponents talking how he looked through them and with that look, knew how they ticked. Then the look vanished and she was only a concerned friend again, and said, “Let the phoenix lead. Healing and resurrection is what it does.”
“I don’t know shit about the thing inside me-”
“It’s been part of you your whole life. It is you, and it’s proven it fights for you, so trust it.” Fallon cut through his protestations with a no-bullshit tone.
Inside him, a song rose, fierce as the drums of war, but with a peaceful undercurrent, beckoning him to follow.
This was for Nalah.
So he did.
Down the path of fire he walked, and then it wasn’t a fire, it was their old library in the shithole town they grew up in, Nalah’s second home he and Jac had always called it. Same two worn and weathered chairs in the middle, the once-red fabric now a bloody brown and shelves of the most battered books that still managed to hold themselves together.
“Only good for getting out of the rain.”
The owner of the voice walked towards one of the chairs, sat in the broken cushion. He was still wiry and compact, the white of his teeth and eyes blinding against his dark skin, his hair close-cropped to his skull. “Jac.” The world spun the way it only had after he’d been jumped and kicked in the head by the group of boys when he was young, not able to right himself because of the dizziness.
“Sit down, man. You fall over, you’ll embarrass me.”