A curtain of water splashes down on us, and I look up to see Maeve leap from her balira and onto the deck in a graceful crouch. Lucent follows behind her, carried on a curtain of wind.
“Surrender,” Teren shouts at Maeve. “And give your navy the order to retreat.” It is a strange sight, seeing the Inquisition standing with us. Rain drips down Teren’s chin. “Or this bay will be your grave, Your Majesty.”
Maeve laughs. She nods toward the ocean, where Beldish warships continue to push steadily forward. “Does this look like we should surrender, Master Santoro?” she shouts back, her voice raw and harsh. “We’ll sit on your throne by noon.” Then she nods at her youngest brother, and Tristan lunges forward. He moves with terrifying speed. One moment, he is rushing toward us with sword drawn—the next, he has reached Teren and slashes at him with the blade. I’m suddenly reminded of Dante, the Spider, my first kill, and the memory sends energy rushing through me. He will cut Teren in half.
But Teren wastes no time. He draws two blades from his belt, lowers his head, and smiles at Tristan. He blocks the prince’s attack—the sound of metal against metal rings out.
Beside me, Magiano whirls and launches into the air. His braids are swept behind his shoulders by gusts of wind, soaked through and glittering with rain and ocean, and in this instant, I do not see a mortal, but the angel of Joy, his wild ecstasy permeating everything around him, his power overwhelming. I can see him taking in a deep breath of air. He is surrounded by Elites. His power has reached its height.
He sends a blast of wind hurtling at Maeve. It knocks her clear off her feet. At the same time, he sends a column of fire racing toward her. Lucent manages to move in time, carrying Maeve on another curtain of wind out of danger—but only barely. Magiano rushes forward at them, daggers drawn, and hurls one at Maeve.
The dagger unwinds before it can ever reach her. It reappears in Michel’s hand.
He sends another dagger hurtling in Raffaele’s direction. This one nearly hits him straight in the throat. Enzo is the one who saves him this time—the prince is a blur of motion, leaping into the path and deflecting the dagger with his own sword. He shoots Magiano a deadly glare. At the same time, Raffaele hurls something in my direction that glints in the darkness. A glass vial. It shatters at my feet.
I jump back just as a creature darts from between the broken shards. It’s a tiny thing—flesh-colored, with what seems like hundreds of legs. Its jaws seek my feet. I jump again as it lunges forward.
When the creature snaps at me a third time, I stamp on it hard with the heel of my boot. I manage to catch its back half. It writhes, trying to bite me, but I pull out my dagger and stab it, crushing its body against the floorboards.
My energy roars in my ears. The battle all around us has fed me to an uncontrollable level. The color of the ocean around us shifts, turning from dark gray to bright silver and then to a brilliant turquoise, lit from within, the illusions fed by my growing power.
I look up to see Michel, swinging from the rigging toward me. I weave an illusion of pain around him. He shudders for an instant—but then I feel him push back with his own strength. He is an artist. He taught me illusions. And now he seems able to see through mine.
“You monster!” he shouts at me. And I know from the pain in his voice that he has already learned of Gemma’s death.
Magiano lands near the helm. He points a dagger up at Michel. The rigging rope Michel is swinging from suddenly unwinds, vanishing, only to reappear on the deck’s floor. Michel’s swing turns into a fall. He plunges towards the deck. Lucent catches him at the last second.
In anger, I lash out toward Lucent with all my strength. My gaze flicks to her hurt wrist—I focus on that, weaving an illusion that increases her pain tenfold. Lucent falls, uttering an anguished cry.
Maeve leaps down between us, and my illusion wavers for a moment from the distraction. The queen’s glare is one of ice and fury. She draws her sword and her gaze intensifies. “Leave her,” she snaps, then rushes toward me.
Sergio’s blade saves me—he appears from nowhere and meets the queen mid-swing. I stagger backward, then look up at the sky. There, Violetta continues to circle on the balira’s back. She meets my stare for an instant.
The distant boom of cannons distracts all of us. The Beldish warships have drawn closer, and Beldish soldiers have us surrounded. Maeve leaps away from Sergio suddenly and calls down at Teren.
“You are outnumbered!” Her eyes fix on me. “The Beldish do not believe in abominations,” she says to me. “We revere your malfettos in the Skylands. You are an Elite, the children of the gods. Just like me. There is no reason for us to fight.”
A long time ago, I might have listened to that. Not an abomination. An Elite. But I am the White Wolf, and I am too powerful to be swayed by the Beldish queen’s words. I look up at her, suddenly disgusted by her olive branch. What a trick. She doesn’t want peace—she nearly killed me. She wants to win, and she will take over Kenettra under the disguise of friendship. Not all Elites are the same. Not all Elites can be allies.
I don’t answer her. Instead, I tilt my head in Enzo’s direction. “Enzo,” I shout. My power surges with his.
“He will not bow to you, White Wolf,” Maeve barks at me. Still, I can hear the uncertainty in her voice. “He knows the truth. He is one of the Daggers, one of us now.”
Not if I can help it, I think, clenching my jaw. Through our tether, I reach out with my threads of energy and seek out his heart. I will control you.