Wizard's Masquerade, page 62
The enchantment locking the doors was weak and hastily cast, the handles interlaced with rippling swirls that formed a loose bow. She pulled it free with a single wrench of magic, and the glass doors flew open as people surged out onto the balcony, pushing her out with them.
She tried to fight her way back against the onslaught of escaping people and suddenly felt a firm grasp on her arm.
“Leaving so soon?” asked the jester’s voice, albeit raspier than usual, and Finnigan pulled her back inside.
They made their way to the centre of the Great Hall, where the fighting continued before the dais. It wasn’t clear who was winning. There were only three Renegátok wizards, but there were many more Demon hounds than guards…far more than the dozen that she had seen earlier.
Somehow, more had arrived, and it made her fully appreciate the number of demons that the chamberlain had summoned since acquiring the Demon Book.
A small army’s worth, she realised.
Meanwhile, the Great Hall was still full of civilians.
“Why are there still people here?” she asked Finnigan.
Damian answered, appearing by her side, no longer carrying the butler.
“The fools outside are blocking the balcony.”
“What? Why aren’t they running into the gardens?”
Damian spat. “Cause they feel safe enough out there that they think they can stand around on the balcony and watch the shitfest in here.”
His reply left her speechless, but not for long. A Demon was sprinting towards them, and she rebuffed it with a light pressure spell—just enough to make it stumble—before slicing her hand through the air, the motion causing a jet of energy to pummel the Demon backwards into the range of the guard chasing it, who swung his sword down, cleaving its skull in two.
That was all she saw, because a boom shook the room, and she jerked her head up in time to see a long, heavy dining table flipped up violently into the air. It spun twice and landed near them, crushing several guards and sending dust and broken tiles flying.
Finnigan pulled her backwards out of harm’s way, and she squinted as debris smarted against her face. Thick black smoke billowed beyond the table, but Finnigan was already on his feet as it cleared, dirk at the ready. A Renegátok wizard climbed over the upturned table, a smoky, black-and-navy vortex already spinning within his hand.
There was no time to think on the flurry of questions, because the wizard advanced, and without magic, Finnigan was defenceless. He backed away, putting distance between himself and the enemy wizard.
“Finnigan,” she gasped, darting forward, the shield spell on the tip of her tongue as she ran to intercept the two wizards. As Finnigan continued to back away, the enemy wizard continued his advance, the vortex growing ever larger in his grasp. The masked wizard lifted his hand, preparing to cast the spell. Leyna readied a shield spell, stretching out her hand as she ran forward, intending to release the barrier between Finnigan and the enemy wizard, hoping it would be enough to block the Renegade spell.
Not for the first time that night, Finnigan surprised her with his ability to fight without magic. Somehow, he had acquired an orange, and just before the enemy wizard released the dark spell, he pelted the fruit at the wizard’s head.
The orange hit the wizard so forcefully that the black mask dislodged, and he fell backwards, releasing the spell upwards at a strange angle.
Cheeky, she thought in approval, her mouth dropping in awe, but her smile fell away as the Renegade spell collided with the ceiling above.
The enormous crystal chandelier swung, the glass shattering into millions of pieces, and the metal fixture lurched as the chain suspending it broke.
It took her a moment to realise the chandelier was falling—falling down onto them. Instinct told her to run, but love drove her forward, and she leapt against Finnigan, colliding against him and embracing him with one arm while projecting the shield above them with the other.
Her eyes widened in the moments before the heavy chandelier hit them.
Thunk.
The chandelier bounced off the magical shield and flew sideways, punching the Renegátok wizard in the midriff before trapping him underneath. Most of the candles snapped or flickering out, and the scene grew a little darker. Only the wizard’s legs were visible, and they twitched and went still. Had he survived the blow? There was no time to check.
In the chaos of battle, they’d lost Damian, but as they ventured further into the fighting, Leyna’s heart fell. More demons arrived.
She could see how they’d gotten in with the doors sealed: through a dumbwaiter, a small window designed to send food up to the nobles’ quarters.
From this small, cupboard-sized door, more demons emerged until at least a hundred were assembled, their ugly flat faces grinning as they surveyed the scene.
They were doomed.
“We could find the chamberlain, have him call them off,” she said in an undertone, but Finnigan shook his head.
“I checked just before—he’s still knocked out cold.”
Damn it, Damian, she thought, because without Seth, that was their last hope.
With so many demons, they could never defeat them all, not even if Finnigan still had his powers. Not even with the headmaster’s help.
Finnigan gripped her arm, trying to pull her away.
“We have to leave!” he urged, but she shook her head.
This was her home. She couldn’t abandon it, not now. The surrounding soldiers were her comrades, and some of these people were her family—her parents were probably here in the crowd. And where was Grace? She couldn’t leave them.
An ominous silence settled over the hall, broken only by the echo of crying. Even the crowd had gone still, as if sensing the danger. It was the calm before the storm. The demons, however hasty in their lust for bloodshed, halted in their attack, savouring the panic.
A bizarre clicking sound began, low and unlike anything she had ever heard before, as dozens upon dozens of demons chanted, the noise punctuated by gurgles and sniggers.
They’re talking to each other, she realised.
Finnigan was still pulling her backwards, and she let him, but she dragged her feet, knowing what surely he knew as well—that they would never make it out alive.
And then the doors to the Great Hall crashed open, and Grace was there, with Seth by her side.
Seth Mathias Rutherford, the Crown Prince of Rosaria.
But he was just a boy. A boy who had lost his parents, and lost himself in his grief.
He took in the surrounding chaos with wide-eyes, mouth agape.
The demons snarled, and it seemed directed at no one in particular, as if they were dreading Seth’s power over them, fearing he would deny them a fight. Eager for blood, their muscled legs bent, their heads swiveling towards the guards and wizards as they prepared to pounce.
Leyna’s stomach knotted. They would take as many as they could, for as long as they could.
Before any of the demons could launch themselves into the air, Seth’s voice rang out as he stepped forward.
“Stop! Stand down.” The demons hesitated, but only for a moment. Seth’s voice was shaky, the order nonspecific, and the demons knew this.
Moreover, his first step had been uncertain, the second equally so, but by the third step, Seth’s head was held high, his expression hard, and the next time he spoke, he was a leader any soldier would have died for.
“Stand down, demons,” Prince Seth commanded, and he looked older than he was, an image of their future ruler.
Amazingly, the demons obeyed, their muscles relaxing, their battle stances fading, the snarling melting away so seamlessly that they might have been benign all along.
“Sit,” Seth added, and thee demons obeyed, sitting back on their hindquarters like dogs—except there was nothing remotely loveable about them. Leyna understood why Seth had done it: he was showing the court who was in charge.
Attaboy, Seth, she thought, but could never have said it to his face, especially not now with how fierce the prince looked.
“Where’s the lord regent?” Seth demanded.
A coarse voice rang out, and Leyna spotted Steward Marek lying beside the dais, clutching his arm as if it was broken.
Seth marched to the steward, stopped before him, and thrust his hand out. The entire court watched, enraptured, as the young prince helped the steward to his feet.
A show of strength and unity.
Leyna sighed, and some of the tension left her shoulders. The fighting was over. They’d won—or at least, they’d neutralised the threat.
She glanced at Finnigan, and they exchanged a smile.
And then the unthinkable happened.
Even though the demon hounds sat obediently, constrained by a contract that bound them to the prince’s command, there was one demon that did not obey. A demon that had been summoned separately.
It was smaller than the hounds, with long, spindly legs and several sets of eyes. It was Ernie the demon cat, and he slinked forward.
At first, Leyna only spotted the hairless tail, and realised too late that it was stalking towards them—towards her and Finnigan.
The demon cat pounced, yowling as its claws dug into Finnigan’s face and hair. He tried to tear it away, but the demon cat hung on with its claws, and then Finnigan was on the ground, roaring with pain as the cat slashed and gnawed at his chest.
Leyna blasted it with a pressure spell, shaped into a concentrated jet that should have punched it right off Finnigan, but the demon was resilient, its claws sunk deep, and as it flew sideways, Finnigan was pulled with it, the force dragging him across the floor.
“No!” she yelled, leaping after them. She threw another spell, this one similarly concentrated but made of water, the cold jet drenching them both. The cat hissed as steam rose off its back, but it clung to Finnigan’s body, and the same thing happened again, with the force of her spell causing the entangled cat and wizard to slide sideways and collide with a wooden bench.
She yelled in frustration, lifting her hand to cast…she didn’t know what. Fireballs did not seem effective against demons, and she couldn’t risk burning Finnigan.
She created a magical cord, utilising the table clothes scattered around the hall, and a thick rope was formed. It glowed green as she sent it whipping through the air, but the demon cat was faster, darting away at the last minute, and as the enchanted rope found its victim in Finnigan, she released the magic before it could wrap around his neck. It fell uselessly to the ground.
Despite her attacks, the demon cat seemed uninterested in her, returning to Finnigan’s groaning form, as if intent on attacking him, and only him.
I have to do something. It’s killing him. It’s claws…the teeth…
Her boot collided with something metallic that clattered as she bumped it and dropped to pick up the dagger.
She didn’t know whose dagger it was, and she didn’t care. She wasn’t even gripping the handle properly, but her strikes were true as she plunged the blade into the demon cat’s back. The demon hissed, but she ignored its cries as she wrenched it out and plunged it back in again, stabbing the vile beast over and over to make it stop hurting Finnigan. To make it stop killing him.
Finnigan, her insides screamed.
Suddenly, the demon cat’s bald tail whipped through the air and slapped at her wrist with a force so sharp that her hand jarred open, and the dagger spun from her grasp.
The demon cat gave a yowl and returned to maul its prey.
Finnigan! She screamed, too horrified for sound to come out, only a choked warble. Finnigan! No!
Without thinking, she seized the demon cat.
The hot contact of the demon burnt her skin, sizzling loudly, and she screamed from the pain even as her fingers dug deeper into the thick, muscled flesh, tears streaming down her face as she tugged, and tugged, and tugged in vain, but the Demon wouldn’t release Finnigan, not until it had killed him.
Suddenly, teeth seized the hood of her cloak and wrenched her backwards, breaking her futile grasp on the demon cat as she was dragged along the ground, away from Finnigan.
She tried to cast a spell at the cat, but the wind had been knocked from her lungs, and whatever had her was dragging her further away.
“Finnigan,” she gasped, uncaring what dragged her or what happened to her, crippled by her inability to save him, by the sheer hopelessness of it all.
The dragging stopped. She was lying on her back now, and as she looked up at the beast that had dragged her across the floor, she tried to draw breath, but she couldn’t. She could only lie there and wheeze as the dark shadow towered over her.
And then she recognised the beast, and she gasped, her lungs finally pulling air.
It was Quinn. Quinn.
The wolf was not looking at her. Instead, it was looking back the way they’d come, and its muscled legs propelled it into the air. It sailed over the length of her body, landing somewhere far beyond her feet. Sniffing, she propped herself up onto an elbow in time to see the wolf land on the demon cat. It seized the creature in its enormous jaws, its long, curved fangs clamping down on the cat. Even with its body shattered, the cat evidently would not release Finnigan, because the wolf shook its powerful head several times before the demon finally let go.
Leyna rolled her body around and crawled forward towards Finnigan, pushing with her elbows and knees as she fought for breath, wincing from the sharp, broken tiles. As she reached them, the wolf finished gnawing at the cat, and satisfied, dropped its small, muscled body to the ground.
Smoke was coming from Quinn’s mouth as he met her gaze, and he licked his muzzle several times with a quiet whimper.
He’s burnt his mouth. And that smell…
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
It was coming from Quinn, and from her burnt hands, and…
And Finnigan.
Leyna pressed her mouth together, trying not to cry as she braced herself for what she was about to see. Ignoring the agony flaring in her hands, she pushed herself up on her arms so she could see Finnigan better.
It was bad.
It was blood, and gore, and an open chest.
As she collapsed on the floor beside him, she was shaking so hard that she couldn’t judge if he was still breathing.
“Finnigan?” she whimpered, wet tears rolling down her face.
He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, and she would have given anything to see the blue of them again, to see the smile lines wrinkle in humour and the glint of delight whenever she surprised him.
She called his name repeatedly, but he did not stir. Unready to face the reality of his wounds, she rested her head on the cool tiles beside him, and averting her eyes from his torso, focusing on his face instead.
“Leyna,” someone said, but she ignored them.
The whole world could pike off. None of the things that had seemed important before mattered now.
She curled up beside Finnigan and caressed his cheek with the back of her trembling hand. A long, low, uninterrupted wail sounded from her throat.
Chapter forty-two
Awakened
She woke up in bed to see a pair of familiar blue eyes peering down at her.
“Finnigan?” she murmured.
“Shh, don’t get up,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“What happened?”
“Shh, it’s alright. You’re in the castle’s healing ward.”
She frowned. For a moment, she’d thought she was in the Guild’s medical bay with Cornelius. With Finnigan. But the man’s voice was older, and as he came into focus, she was disappointed to see his uncle. Memories of the battle in the Great Hall came racing back to her.
“Sir,” she said, blanking on the headmaster’s name. “Where’s Finnigan? Is he…?”
“Cornelius is doing just fine. And so are you.”
“Really?” Despite the headmaster’s insistence, she tried to sit up again, and with a resigned sigh, he gave in and helped her. “Ouch!” she cried, withdrawing her hands from the mattress she'd been trying to push up from. Her hands stung and throbbed with hot pain like boiling water had been poured onto them. Why were there bandages on her hands and forearms?
The demon cat.
She shuddered, then cast her gaze around. Her bed was tucked away in the ward's corner, with stone walls to her right and privacy screens to her left, and right beside her was another bed…
“See? He’s fine,” said Master Emsworth.
Ignoring the headmaster’s protests, she slid out of bed, avoiding the use of her hands as she did so, and approached the other bed where Finnigan lay. His face was still bruised and his eyes were closed, but there was colour in his cheeks, and it brought her joy to see the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
“There is still a lot of work to be done, but he’s stable.”
She nodded, running a bandage`d finger along his bare arm, which lay at a relaxed angle across his midriff. He looked peaceful. “Good. And…do you know if his magic will return? The chamberlain and I…” she screwed her eyes shut at the memory, knowing it would haunt her nightmares. “We made him drink a potion. The varaztalan,” she said, the name appearing on her lips. “Only it was very concentrated. Do you think his magic will return?” The question was a plea.
Please, don’t let him wake and find himself magicless.
“Varaztalan potion?” The headmaster rubbed his throat. “Undiluted, you say? Well, that explains the internal bleeding.”
Her head shot up.
“Don’t worry, it’s all settled now. I was able to stabilise things in time. As for whether his magic will return, I do not know. Normally, it takes less than a drop to rob a wizard of his magic temporarily. That is, a drop is pipetted and made up to, say, one hundred millilitres. But if it was varaztalan in its purest form…” the headmaster frowned. “How much did you say you gave him?”
