Page 125 of Accomplice to the Villain

To kill the man would be to snuff that color out completely, and Trystan found the idea of destroying anything that resembled Sage…unfathomable.

“I’m sick of being nice,” Trystan grumbled, flicking his magic at the man’s foot instead of his neck and rolling his eyes as the man dropped to the ground, crying out in agony. “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.” Trystan waved at the man, moving past him to Clare and Tatianna, fighting with careless ease.

Clare tossed out more green ink, splashing it into three men’s eyes at once. Joyously, it seemed. Her cheering being the first clue.

A large pirate approached Trystan with a yellowed grin. “I’m gonna bring your head to Benedict on a pike.”

Benedict?“You’re working for the king?”

“We’re mercenaries.” The man towered over him by half, even with Trystan’s considerable height. “We work for whoever pays the most.” A hand came up to stroke his long gray beard. “Care to counter?”

“Certainly,” Trystan replied flatly, the mist dancing at the man’s feet before paralyzing him in place. “I can kill you slowly or quickly.” Unsheathing his sword, Trystan held the tip of the blade to the man’s chest. He sneered. “Your choice.”

The magic flooded over him, sweeping the ship and freezing all the pirates in place, lighting their fresh wounds, their old ones, and their kill spots. But again, there was that rainbow glow over their hearts.

There was something poetic in it, and Trystan would analyze it more…if he gave a shit.

But for now, he really wanted to wipe the floor with these nincompoops for getting in the way of his plans. “You all have two options. Shall I present them? Or dispatch you now?”

No answer, just frozen bodies and perplexed faces.

“Get back!” Clare screamed in the distance, and when Trystan heard it, his magic faltered, flickering its hold enough for several pirates to break free. They immediately sprinted for him, and Trystan knew he’d never be able to fight them all at once.

He raised his blade, knowing that he’d rather die fighting than be slain already defeated. A battle cry rang from his lips as he ran for the first one, but another blade whipped through the air, landing right through the man’s skull.

The pirate dropped, as did Trystan’s jaw.

The dagger sailed back in the direction from which it had come, and every head turned to see where it landed.

Evie stood there, frowning, tilting the handle back and forth. “My aim was a little off.”

Warmth diffused through every one of Trystan’s limbs, a phantom ache filling his chest. “You weren’t aiming for his skull?” he asked softly.

Her eyes flickered below his belt, his body tightening in response as she grinned. “Farther south.”

All the pirates winced and took three steps backward.

Captain Jones interceded before any more limbs—or other appendages—could be severed. “Those who remain, surrender your weapons and line up!” Tatianna’s jovial father was gone, a hard-nosed commander in his place, and the few remaining pirates tossed their swords onto the pile.

The sweet smell of vanilla masked the scent of death. “Will he kill all of them?” Sage asked at his side.

The prisoners fell into line as the captain read them their rights. Trystan shook his head. “No. Captain Jones is no pirate—he’ll follow the laws of a seaman. Offer them a place on the crew or a stay in the brig until the next port.”

Sage laughed lightly, and the sound caused a twinge in his chest. “You’ll probably say this is sad…but I think this is the best birthday ever.”

Trystan didn’t find it sad.

He found itfucking awful.

“Why didn’t you say anything to anyone?” he asked, harsher than he meant to.

Her cheeks turned pink as she averted her gaze. “It’s just another day.”

Trystan folded his arms, raising a skeptical brow. “You filled one of our office cannons with confetti when it was Tatianna’s birthday, and we’re still finding scraps of pink months later. You’re saying I suffered all that when you don’t think much of birthdays? An impressive feat of villainy, even I must admit.”

A stray curl lay out of place across her forehead, and Trystan’s hand itched to push it back. The wind did the work for him, and he found himself irrationally resenting weather.

Like a headcase.