Before anyone could react, two more arrows sliced through the heel of my aggressors' boots, pinning the targets in place. Just as I'd seen Siren do before with Tom's company.

Residual tears dribbled down my cheeks as I stared at the two sets of arrows—one distinctly utilitarian, and the other fit for a queen.

Mason and Valerie had arrived.

My friends were here.

"Take cover!" The Bishop cried, and the women and children ran for the trees while the men aimed their shotguns at the surrounding shadows, firing blindly into the empty buildings on either side of the field. Wasting bullets. Rattling my eardrums.

What a horrible sound gunfire was, announcing each homicide, every intent to maim or murder. The roar of battle was already disorienting enough; I couldn't imagine an ocean of bullets, cannons, and drones.

Seven more arrows rained down upon us, some from the left, some from the right—all of them skewering shins and feet and trigger-happy fingers. Valerie's shots were as precise as ever, but it was clear Mason's archery practice had paid off too. The Mansion Boy didn't miss.

I couldn't help but smile at the spectacle. The archers' quick movements made it almost impossible to tell their whereabouts, their numbers unknown and incalculable. Their victims fell to the ground like demented sea lions, clasping their ankles or tripping over their stapled shoes. A handful of men dropped their weapons with startled screams, while others abandoned the meadow altogether.

I let out a snort. These pyromaniacs sure acted tough with those weapons slung around their shoulders, but as soon as a real fight came knocking, a couple of war-torn teens had them outmatched.

I looked to Beckett, hoping to find him as thrilled as I was, but a stealthy Torian was already helping him into the forest, taking advantage of the chaos. I glanced away before anyone followed my line of sight.

Impressive.

This was clearly a coordinated attack, which meant my crazy, beautiful friends hadn't just stormed the camp—they'd planned this rescue mission out. Together.

The Bishop growled at the disruption. He tossed his smoking torch to the dirt, and I was incredibly pleased to see the flames grow cold. Then Miss Crazy Eyes handed him a loaded shotgun and ducked behind me to ward off any other rescue attempts.

Shedding his cloak, the Bishop took up a stance in front of my execution device and glared at the source of the ambush through his scope. "Come out and fight with your fists! We're not afraid of you, devil-worshippers!"

At his request, the assault ceased immediately, and it grew so silent in the Rim, I could hear my own anxious breathing over the wind.

Nerves danced in my stomach. What on earth would my friends do now? Attack on foot? Charge on horseback and hope for the best?

Experience aside, it was still four of them against forty grown men and their female counterparts, plus any shooters standing guard outside the church grounds. Even if Mason and the others managed to rescue me, I knew for a fact we didn't have enough arrows to end a pursuit.

Dread filled my blood as I reviewed their limited modes of retrieval. I hoped they hadn't placed all their luck in my power of sedation. Remaining conscious was difficult enough already—I was absolutely no use to them like this, hands free or not.

My answers came when a figure appeared at the other end of the field, emerging from the shadows like a phantom and carrying an air of authority, mystery, and unflinching bravery.

The cult members twirled and pointed their weapons at the visitor, trembling in their boots, afraid of activating the icy, dominating presence across the way.

I blinked a few times, convinced I was delirious, but my eyes did not deceive me: fifty meters away, Will sat atop his black stallion, staring down the Bishop in the most intimidating manner I'd ever seen.

He wore his usual black attire and winter cloak, but he'd cut his shirt open to reveal the jagged, angry scars on his chest—the insignia of Godric's portal on full display. Like Siren, he'd also drenched his eyes and cheekbones in animal blood, and I recognized Valerie's handiwork in the charcoal lining of his eyelids.

Beneath his hood, he'd let his hair down from his ponytail, giving him a wild, rugged sort of look, and the tattoo bisecting his face only added to the infernal image he sought to portray.

He looked...terrifying.

"You shoot me, you die," Will declared, his voice loud enough to reach us, yet perfectly dignified and even.

The Bishop adjusted his grip on his gun. "Move any closer, and we'll put a bullet in this demon's brain."

"We both know that won't stop her," Will dismissed, a king of lies. He moved toward us, ignoring the threat of gunpowder while exuding a raw, regal confidence I'd never seen in him before.

One of the armed men swore and reloaded his gun, rising from behind a pile of debris to end Will's life—only to take an arrow to the eye socket instead.

His body immediately hit the ground, empty of life, and I could just make out Mason's goose feather fletching sprouting from the shaft.

That was probably the first human he'd ever killed. And for his childhood rival, no less.

Will paused, glaring at Bishop impatiently, and the leader finally breathed a strained, "You heard him. Hold your fire!"

Pleased, the mustang and his rider carried forward, hooves crushing broken glass and ancient church rubble. The women gawked at him from the sidelines, apprehensive, while the gunmen barely turned their heads, lest an arrow find their jugulars.

Will paused several feet away from us, and the Bishop dropped the gun a few inches to look him in the eye. "What do you want, Northerner?"

Will scowled at the title, but I was more offended at the fact that he'd received a platform to speak at all. The religious leader had taken one look at me and assumed I was a deceitful witch, but he'd lend an ear to this random man drenched in blood? Really?

"You've mistaken me for an enemy," Will replied. "I come from Rhea, a territory west of the Black Canyon."

The Bishop exchanged concerned glances with Miss Crazy Eyes, as if that told them everything they needed to know about their adversary. "And what is it you and your guests want with us, Rhean?"

Finally, Will's gaze slid to mine. Mean, tired, and annoyed.  "You've stolen our cargo. I'm here to retrieve it."

I was so elated to see him, I almost forgot to play my part, but the stern look Will gave me shocked me into performance.

"Have you missed me, Tooms?" I teased, feigning contempt. "Must have, seeing as you came all this way to hunt me down. Obsessed much?"

He severed eye contact at that, perfectly disgusted, but I could detect the smallest traces of pride in his frown. Pride at my ability to adapt so quickly to his plan. Pride at my resilience, despite the horrible things I'd endured this evening.

The Bishop looked between Will and me, his finger still caressing the trigger of his gun. "Cargo, you said. What will you do with it?"

Will dismounted his mustang and leaned back against the horse with his arms crossed, entirely unbothered by the gun in his face. "She's not a demon. Her name's Ikelos, and she's a harbinger of evil spirits. Trapped in the body of a human, she feeds on the souls of the living to survive."

"I don't care what you call her," the man dismissed. "She doesn't belong on God's green earth."

"That's something we can agree on. But fire won't kill her, just as it hasn't killed the demons you've burned in the past," Will explained. "Steel, gunpowder, flame—those will only displace demonic energy elsewhere." His cold, perceptive eyes narrowed on the priest. "But something tells me you already knew that."

The Bishop hesitated for a second, then sucked in sharply through his teeth, the mask finally splintering. For the first time this afternoon, he appeared truly vulnerable—fearful, paranoid, and confused. And despite his hatred for me, I felt a small pinch of pity for the man.

"It's never enough," he said. His eyes widened, and his voice dropped low enough that none of his followers could hear him. "They always come back."

Will nodded, not in a condescending way, but in a perfectly agreeable, diplomatic fashion, as if his companions hadn't just terrorized the congregation moments before. "Immortal creatures can only be killed with immortal tools." He tapped the sword at his hip. "And Ikelos...she's more difficult than most. We'll need to take her to the mountains to perform a proper exorcism. It's the only way to expel her from this world. Do you understand?"

The Bishop shook his head, struggling to make sense of it all. "Explain her bond with the other hostage then. Why did she shed tears for a man who wants her dead?"

I feared I'd doomed Will with that heartfelt goodbye, but to my amazement, he'd come prepared for that question as well. "That man is the reason we're in this mess to begin with," he seethed. "He's the father of the human Ikelos possessed, and he agreed to assist us in hopes of recovering his daughter's soul. But when the details of her fate came to light, Ikelos began emotionally manipulating him, begging him to help her." He glared at me. "Don't be fooled: those are crocodile tears and nothing else."

Miss Crazy Eyes stepped out from behind my pyre, still gripping tight to the dagger in her hand. "You mentioned taking her to the mountains. We've seen things beyond the canyon. Beams of darkness in the sky."

"Portals," Will supplied. "It's how we send the demons back to hell." He faced the Bishop again, and it astonished me how well he played the part. Then again, he'd pretended to be someone else for nearly five years—he'd cultivated and honed the skill of deception. "I don't want to harm you. I simply wish to take her off your hands."

"But you're not willing to take no for an answer," the Bishop clarified.

"I'm informing you of my plan," Will acknowledged. "Not asking for permission."

We all knew he didn't need it. Not with that entrance.

The leader glanced at me again, grimacing at my bloody, half-conscious state. "If what you say is true, how can you expect me to trust you with a creature capable of such bloodshed?" he asked. "How can I ensure her destruction?"

Will tilted his head, assessing his opponent. Then he raised his dark eyebrows to express his sincerity. "We live by faith, not by sight, no?"

The Bishop's mouth fell open, and I wasn't sure what secret code Will had just uttered, but it seemed to do the trick. The frail man finally lowered his weapon and stepped aside for Will to retrieve his precious cargo.

The prince bowed his head—a sign of gratitude—and cautiously approached me, his expression still hostile, still foreign. It wasn't until he stepped up on the rocks and kindling with me, shielded from an audience, that he broke character.

Guilt, pain, and sorrow flooded his eyes, and endless apologies nestled in the ripple of his brow. There, beneath all the tattoos, bloodstains, and scars, was my best friend. And he'd come to save me.

The affection on his face made my lip tremble, and I offered him the subtlest of smiles to let him know I was okay.

Schooling his features, he quickly untied the rope around my thighs, and then, wincing at me, he reached up and yanked the nail out of my left hand.

I gasped out a string of curses as my hand fell back to my side—stinging, aching, and bleeding all over again. But before I could fully process the pain, Will had jerked the nail out of my right hand as well, and my body pitched forward like a poorly stacked hay bale, crashing into his chest.

Grunting, he caught me around the waist, and I buried my face into the crook of his neck to hide my tears.

Gritz, I wanted to stay right here forever. Wrapped in his arms like a treasured item. Enveloped in his embrace as the world kept on spinning without us. Safe. Warm. Untroubled.

But we still had work to do.

"I take it you're going to behave now?" Will taunted after a moment's pause, prompting me to finish the game.

Right.

I shoved him away from me and dashed for the woods, stumbling through the brush like a newborn fawn. But, just as I'd anticipated, he caught up to me in seconds, and my escape attempt was rendered fruitless.

Snatching the back of my hood, he threw me to the grass, kneeling down on my spine to keep me still. He used just enough weight to overpower me, but not enough strength to cause me any real pain.

He tied my hands together behind my back with the rope from the pyre, careful to avoid my palms, and although I struggled and kicked against him, I didn't have to fake my weakness; I was truly exhausted.

"You never stop, do you?" he hissed, pulling me to my feet and escorting me back to his horse. We halted in front of our hosts, and he grabbed a fistful of my hair, tilting my head back and pressing his vanadium sword to my neck. "You always have to make things so difficult on yourself."

I tutted. "Don't blame me for your sloppy work, exile."

His blade kissed my skin, daring me to challenge him. "Try me again, and you'll be dragged behind my horse for the rest of our journey," he warned. "Are we clear?"

I leaned into the sword slightly, as if it were his intention, and the blade pierced old scar tissue. White smoke seeped from the incision, funneling out of the wound like incense smoke, and I felt Will stiffen against me, startled by my gall. 

I knew he didn't want to hurt me, but we needed to convince these weirdoes he didn't care for my safety. Even if it meant spilling some of my mysterious spirit juice.

The Bishop and his female companion both retreated a few steps, confounded by the white light beneath my skin.

"What is that...pouring out of its neck?" the woman asked.

"The souls she's consumed," Will informed them, always so quick on his feet. "You're lucky you didn't try to burn her alive. Who knows what might have happened here?" He scanned the gunmen behind us, then the dead man with an arrow in his eye. "I apologize for any inconvenience we've caused, but we need to make haste. If she stays in one place too long, she can summon evil spirits for aid."

Manhandling me with an unfamiliar gruffness, Will hoisted me up on the mustang—a brutal task with my hands restrained. But once I'd successfully straddled the horse, we shared a look, as if neither one of us could believe his plan had worked.

Holding his gaze, I nudged the hilt of his sword with my boot, hoping he could somehow understand my request.

He stared back at me, asking the silent question, and I turned away with a quiet scoff. But deep down, I was begging him to read between the lines.

Will glanced back at the Bishop. "The sword you took from her," he said, pausing for a beat in case I changed my mind. "...Take care of it. The blade will protect you from your average forest demon. Use it wisely."

I breathed out, thankful for Will's perception. The sword would serve as an offering to kill their suspicion, a trade to ensure my freedom and our safe departure.

Besides. It wasn't like I needed the killing device anyway.

The Bishop watched us with wary fascination as Will mounted his steed behind me, but the leader didn't raise his gun, and he didn't release his goons upon us.

I peeked at the cult and the corroded statue they worshiped one last time before Will made a clicking sound with his tongue. The command sent his beast galloping into the dark, and I let out a choked sound of relief as we vanished into the woods.