Page 50 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Why’s that?” the second asked.

Thunder rolled, and my eyes shot skyward as a smile curved my lips. “Nobody sends me anywhere.”

“’M about to send you to meet your maker,” the third promised as lightning shredded across the darkening sky.

I laughed, rotating as I set the box of hard drives on the dirt so my hands were free. The birds began croaking, a melancholic song erupting, branches creaking as they called back and forth. As though in warning, two dive-bombed the men below before soaring up and away.

My laughter grew.

“Why are you laughin’?” the second demanded.

“There wasn’t a storm in the forecast,” I pointed out, grinning. Only the first was wise enough to straighten, eyes darting skyward.

The rest chuckled as the third spoke again, chastising me. “Welcome to the South.”

Stretching both hands toward the ground, I breathed in deeply, summoning what little air magic I possessed. The wind began to whistle through the trees as the first and second Paladins wreathed themselves in nebulous shadows.

With way too much satisfaction, I countered, “Welcome to Midgard.”

TEN

MIDGARD

CYRUS

Welcome to Midgard.

A shiver shot down my spine, and I jerked my eyes skyward as thunder rolled, the wind tearing at my hood. Holy shit. The once-blue sky had filled with livid clouds, heavy with unshed rain. The tempest churned, flashes of lightning turning it a startling purple, each jagged bolt streaking across the bulbous expanse.

Midgard. As in Earth—to the Norse pantheon. As in, the domain of the God of thunder. Lightning wielder. No. Fucking. Way.

And my men were too busy laughing to comprehend the hell about to rain down on us.

Fuckwits, the lot of them. The ‘Wings’ my father had spared were newly marked—young and inexperienced—namely, my cousins. There were only four ways to become a Paladin: birth, ascending as a Wing’s calling, mating in, or surviving the Crucible—a series of three trials culminating in a victorious duel against a Wing to claim their place among us. No one had survived in decades. And yet, standing here now, I wished we had at least one victor among us, because judging by the caliber of imbeciles flanking me, birth seemed a laughably low prerequisite for service. Worse yet, if they died today, their blood would be on my hands.

“Go!” I bellowed, as three things happened at once.

Lightning shredded the clearing, bolts raining down in rapid succession. Our cadre erupted into bellows of warning, their shouts mixing with the shocked yells of those barely dodging the onslaught.

The wind picked up, The Wraith’s heavy cloak billowing in its wake. And my shadows hissed for me to run. Sixty seconds ago, it hadn’t even been dark enough for our shadows to hold enough power to speak.

But it was the victorious spark in her eyes, the slight lift of one covered cheek as my men scattered, and the ravens crying as they dove to shield their souls that had me gritting my teeth—and bolting forward instead of away.

Heat scorched across my back as I dodged a searing blue pillar of light, a yell lodging in my throat. Instinct took over, my shadows wrapping an inky curtain around me the instant the blinding glow passed. Relief settled into my bones as time stilled, the murky shadow realm offering a welcome reprieve from the hell we’d just unwittingly unleashed. I sucked down a breath, taking a single beat to glance at the shredded fabric left in the lightning’s wake. My blistered skin glowed an angry crimson beneath.

One direct hit, and it’d be the ugliest kind of death. I couldn’t have cut it any closer if I’d tried.

Carr panted into existence beside me, Nix a few feet away, his hood blown back. Both of their winged markings had shifted into black metal guards—combat ready. The three of us exchanged heavy stares before scanning the chaos. The shadows would conceal us so long as we stayed the fuck away from the lightning. But if we touched its evanescent glow, time would return—in the most brutal way—before ending altogether.

“What the fuck?” Carr growled.

Nix’s gravelly voice was harsher than usual as he bit out, “Nobody said anything about a damned lightning wielder.”

“Nobody knew,” I snapped, my gaze locking onto her slight frame.

Our third voiced the thought I hadn’t dared speak. “That’s a lot of power in such a tiny soul.”

I turned back to our adversary. She stood casually, one hand outstretched toward the earth as she called the wind, the other mid-flip with that monkey fist—like she’d ever need it. She was maybe five-seven. I didn’t even know souls could be so small. But what did size matter when wielding power like that? Who in their right mind would get close enough for her to land a hit when she could fry us like shrimp without even touching us?