Page 75 of All Hallows Fate

But he was already fighting to get closer to us. They all were, I realised. There was a shield around Violence. Shit, that was what made Orwell scream. Orwell—where was he? I threw a frantic stare towards the lake, fearing he’d fallen in, but found him passed out on the banks.

Kill those pricks.

I imagined throwing a fist through the flimsy paper of my fear, imagined terror ripping, allowing me to throw myself through the gap to where my inner judge lived. To where the death goddess lived.

Violence was protected, standing with his hands in his pockets and satisfaction on his ugly face as Moth surged at Joanna again, graceful and fast but again, mechanical. No passion, no anger, no murder in her expression.

“Stop it,” I spat, and drove a blast of dark magic at Violence, calling on every lesson I remembered from—that place. The blank, empty place. Exile.

Its name rang in my mind, and with it, the last dregs of the black hole cracked.

I had a tutor, a friend, and his name was Ender. I’d walked out of Exile into the blackness between realms, and I’d left him behind. If I died, no one would remember that he existed. The first Judgement.

The scales in my hand erupted without my permission, the metal alive with rage, the gemstone burning brighter than the sun. Violence winced, but showed no other sign he was affected.

Moth, though, screamed and stumbled back.

In agony, I assumed, from the burn of the scales. But it was rage that settled in the lines of her face. It was rage that turned her motions sharp and slicing.

She spun away from Joanna and drove herself at Violence, and my breath caught in surprise, but I didn’t hesitate. I surged more of my magic through the scales, and slammed light and death magic into Violence at the same time Moth buried the serrated blade in his chest. She twisted, twisted the blade, her fury more violent than anything he’d ever done.

It was personal. Acute. The kind of igneous fury that can only come from having your own choices confiscated from you.

Kill those pricks.

My blood boiled. I shattered the roots holding me in place and climbed free, sliding through the mud to stand beside Moth as I tore into my jaguar form and roared.

More fire blasted across the lake, but I couldn’t look away from Violence as Moth and I attacked him in tandem. Had Duncan burned up all the spirits? Had he removed that threat, or did they still surround us? Where was Darya; was she burned up, too? The creatures were still quiet thanks to Joanna’s initial blow, but they’d never been the true threat. Deadly, to be certain, but temporary. The threat of Violence was as permanent as true, final death.

And I intended to introduce him to that true, final death. To wipe out any stain and trace of him, exactly like my dad did to Cruelty.

We were gaining strength, the combined force of Moth and I enough to make Violence panic. I saw it in the way his face fell in increments, and the desperate way he flung magic our way.

I sank my teeth into his leg and gnashed right down to the bone, ripping out a chunk of flesh and gore. I expected him to laugh, so the rusty chuckle that stained the space above my head raised no warning bells. I sank my teeth into his other leg, determined to rip the bones right out of his body, but a gurgle sounded before I could.

It took a moment for it to register: that sound came from me.

Confusion came first, sticky and slow, but then agony blazed a wildfire across my back and deep into the tissue of my muscles. My legs folded under me, a yowl of pain driving up my throat and into the woods as I collapsed.

Another sharp slice of pain dissected the fur of my back, reached deep into my soul, and made me scream. I’d never heard a scream through a Jaguar’s voice before; it echoed in my head as I dug my claws into the mud, trying to fight my way up.

“Finish it,” Violence urged with vicious delight.

And I saw him from the corner of my eye, standing over me. Expressionless but, oh, those eyes. Tortured. Broken.

Pain.

I reached for his soul with my last bit of strength, but didn’t manage to reach him before the blade came down again—one of my own; pink metal with heart-shaped handles—and ripped my life from me.

51

Misery

Ithrew myself against the wall of buzzing green magic again, and again, and—Tor grabbed my shoulder.

“This isn’t working,” he grunted, looking from me to Madde, then Death. “Joanna’s locked us the fuck out.”

“But why?” Death drifted closer, cloaked entirely in shadow. He hadn’t shown us his face in hours, and it ate at me. “She wouldn’t betray Misery.”