hand braced on the ground, the other gripping his chest. Blood twisted in a stream down his wrist.
Hopelessness grayed her thoughts. She saw no way they could survive this. No, not they—for she would survive, stolen back to Ashcroft Manor as the Chancellor’s prize. She realized, in despair, that she would rather die at Nathaniel’s side.
“I must admit,” Ashcroft said, “it’s a shame to see you go. The final heir of the great House Thorn, cut down before his prime.” He considered Nathaniel as he ran his thumb down the sword’s edge, testing its sharpness. “Then again, you always were determined to be the last, weren’t you? You would do anything to prevent another Baltasar—another Alistair.”
Nathaniel’s shoulders hitched. His other hand struck the ground, catching his weight, leaving a gory imprint as his fingers shifted. Ashcroft watched him pityingly.
“So I suppose,” he said, raising his sword, “that in a way, I’m merely giving you what you’ve always wanted.”
Nathaniel looked up, his eyes clear and cold. On the marble, using his blood, he had drawn an Enochian sigil. And it was beginning to glow with emerald light.
Ashcroft’s expression went blank. So that’s what he looks like when he is truly taken by surprise, Elisabeth thought. The sigil blazed brighter and brighter, and he fell back with a shout of pain, throwing an arm over his eyes. She squeezed her own shut, feeling the magical shock wave ripple over her as a rush of tingling sparks.
The ground heaved. Marble cracked and crumbled. When she opened her watering eyes, it was to the sight of the rose vines, now as thick around as tree trunks, shedding fragments of the balustrade. The pavilion had been imprisoned in a tangle of thorns, unearthly in the moonlight, like something from an old tale. The colossal spines pierced stone and demons alike. As she watched, the vines continued growing, curving and twining, wrapping the bodies of the fiends as their gleaming points stretched toward the starry sky.
She didn’t smell blood, or charred flesh, or anything else foul. Only the sweet, wistful scent of the roses. The pressure on her chest had lifted, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw the fiend that had attacked her being enveloped by vegetation. The light faded from its eyes as buds unfurled into leaves, hiding it from view.
Ashcroft staggered, disoriented and blinking. He bumped into the interlocking thorns that had grown around him like a cage. Elisabeth had eyes only for Nathaniel. As she watched, he swayed and passed out, collapsing in a pool of blood.
With a cry, she started forward. And in doing so, she stumbled straight into Lorelei’s waiting arms.
The demon folded her in a cold, hard embrace. A glamour’s numbing calm enveloped Elisabeth, forcing her thoughts to slow and her muscles to relax. She became an insect, caught in a spider’s web.
“Relax now, darling,” Lorelei murmured into her ear. “It’s almost over. Once my master frees himself, he’ll make short work of the Thorn boy. Do you hear his heartbeat fading? I do.” Claws skimmed down the side of her face, over her ear, stroking her hair. The hands turned her around. “Watch him die.”
That was a mistake. At the sight of Ashcroft smashing through the thorns to reach Nathaniel, Elisabeth felt everything at once: the sting of her cuts and bruises, the blood pumping through her veins, the night air filling her lungs, the breeze cooling her wet cheeks. Her surroundings grew sharp-edged and crystal clear as Lorelei’s influence faded to cobwebs.
And there was Silas. At some point during the battle, he had managed to drag himself up into a crouch. Though agony fogged his yellow eyes, he watched her calmly, with meaningful intent. Demonslayer lay beside him, almost touching his bound hands. He looked at the sword and then back at her. He was waiting for her signal.
Elisabeth couldn’t nod. Lorelei would see. Slowly, like a cat, she blinked.
Demonslayer slid across the marble. When it came within reach, Elisabeth stomped on the hilt, flipping the sword into the air. She ignored the bright slice of pain as she caught the naked blade in one hand and thrust it backward, deep into Lorelei’s body.
There was less resistance than she expected. Lorelei choked, coughed. Her claws tightened convulsively on Elisabeth’s arms. “You,” she gritted out. “How dare you—”
And then she was gone. The death of a highborn demon was not like that of a fiend. No body remained, just tendrils of steam that wisped around Elisabeth,