Changed by Fire (Phoenix Rising #6) - Harper Wylde Page 0,176
attacked,” Ciarán informed us somberly. I hadn’t even seen him in the crowd, and I realized why now. He was completely soaked in blood, carefully holding Gaspard in his strong hands and preventing his organs from making contact with the ground. “Too many of our folks had already left when we were blindsided. We were gathered here as we assembled the next wave of evacuations when the mercenaries attacked.” His words were bitter, and I could see tears tracking down his cheeks, drawing lines through the blood smeared over every inch of him. “They knew where our stronghold was before you ever left, otherwise we would have had time to get most people out.”
“Ishida was the diversion,” Theo growled, his voice never sounding so deadly.
Gaspard pushed into our heads, and Damien sank down next to me, his tears joining mine as he stroked gentle hands down his grandfather’s leg.
A video fast-forwarded through our minds, the images transferred as Gaspard communicated in the only way he could—letting us see through his eyes, feel through his body, and experience his last moments before this dreadful pain.
“Good job, little one,” Gaspard praised, ruffling Aaron’s dark brown hair as he looked up at him with total admiration. He was proud he’d accomplished the task Gaspard had set during their training session--a diversion to keep the hybrid kids distracted from the fear of the adults as they scurried to pack and leave. “You remind me of a young Raphael. He was also so quick to learn, just like you.” Gaspard glanced into the night sky, and his murmured words were almost too difficult to hear. “I wish I had been there for you over the years. I could have been a better father, but I’m here for Damien. I’m taking care of him, son, just like I promised. You’d be as proud of him as I am. He’s a leader, better than you or I ever were.”
The wind whispered through the training yard, ruffling his gray hair, but he stiffened immediately. “Intruders!” Gaspard yelled, and I watched, with tears clogging my throat, as he barked orders, the vision moving rapidly as the children scrambled to follow directions. The remaining adults formed a loose circle around the arena as the Council’s hired mercenaries stormed through the door. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape.
They began to attack with magic, claws, teeth, and weapons, and the object of their obsession was clearly Gaspard. The Council knew of his strength. It made sense that they’d want him out of the way before the final battle. My heart shredded into tiny pieces, and remorse crawled up my throat to choke me as I watched Gaspard fight back, blocking blast after blast with a magic shield while his powers slipped into the minds of his enemies, turning them against each other in a bloodbath. His fangs burst forth, his form bulking as his Gargoyle pressed forward, and his leathery wings extended from his back with a roar that sent shivers down my spine. He was magnificent. Powerful. Strong. But that didn’t stop his attention from wavering as the remaining militants coordinated their efforts, hitting his shield from all sides and cackling otherworldly sounds as they watched it fizzle out, the sparkling shards raining to the ground.
Their bodies twisted and distorted until they were beast-like men with long snouts and razor sharp teeth. Claws tipped each finger, their hands now looking more like paws. What the fuck were those things? I held my breath as the sight of one of those monsters grabbing Aaron rolled through our minds, followed by the sound of blood curdling cries. I wanted to pull back from the memory, look around, and search each face of every child in the arena to see if the boy survived. I didn’t think I’d be able to take it if I watched a child die. Visions of my past crept in around the edges, making nausea churn in my belly. I wanted to puke, my throat already scalded by the acid that continued to rise and fall with each new wave of sickness. Instead, I swallowed and held steady, needing to see what happened, needing to know who I was going to kill.
The battle waged on, and I saw Ciarán enter the slaughter, swirling into mist to dodge attacks while silver radiated from his skin and clouded from his fingers. He attacked silently, and men—if you could call them that—fell dead at his feet as he seemed to