Bewitched, page 22
I’m busy. I force the message down that river between us.
What is going on? he demands.
Ignoring Memnon, I turn from the rising witches and face the magical wall. It’s violet hued and semitransparent.
I kick at it with my heel. It doesn’t budge.
I draw on more magic, my limbs shaking from exertion. I try to pull it from the ground and into my flesh so I minimize taxing my own limited well of power.
The magic sifts into the soles of my feet, and when I start to hear witches banging on the barrier I erected, I coax the gathered power up my legs and down my arm.
A small pale orange ball of it bursts to life in my hand.
I throw it at the magical wall in front of me. The wall ripples, the violet sheen of it fading a little, but it holds.
At my back, the other witches are doing the same thing to my wall, pummeling it with spell after spell. So far, it’s holding out better than the one in front of me, but there are many of them working on bringing it down.
I spare a glance at the shifter. Before, she’d been dazed but awake. Now she lies limp in my arms. I shake her a little, willing her to wake, but though her chest rises and falls, she remains unconscious.
Not good, not good, not good.
I draw on my magic in a panicked burst and slam it against the wall. The spell shifts, then reforms.
Another pull of magic, another throw.
Another ripple when it hits the wall.
Again and again I do this, ignoring the sounds of the spells hitting the wall at my back.
After one final hit of my power, the violet-hued barrier in front of me shatters. I nearly cry out in relief.
I haul the shifter back up into my arms, wincing at the pain in my shoulder as I stand and bear her weight. My injury has gone from burning to throbbing, and I can tell that once the adrenaline leaves my system, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.
At my back I hear my own protective wall cracking. That’s all the incentive I need to get moving.
I sprint once more down the hall. It curves, the candles burned down almost to their bases.
Okay, but where the hell is the exit?
Ahead of me, the corridor opens to a chamber full of shelves of what appear to be grimoires, judging by the hazy brown mixture of magic thickening the air.
The flagstones give way to more marble, and my feet slap across a solar image as I enter the chamber.
Almost immediately my head begins to pound at the conflicting magic.
I move to the far end of the room, where a set of stone lamassu guard a rounded archway. Beyond it looks to be another spiral staircase.
In the distance, I hear the pounding of footfalls.
Fuck.
Frantically, I look at the stone threshold protectors, an idea sparking. I move to the first step of the stairs, then turn back to look down at the statues that are part woman, part lion, part eagle.
“Lamassu,” I call to them, “I summon you to protect us. Let no one with wicked intent cross your threshold.”
In an instant, the stone guardians come to life. They rise from their haunches and prowl forward, away from the stairs, their gray tails flicking. It’s the oddest sight.
Magic, man. Don’t do drugs when you can do this.
I swivel forward and ascend the stairs, gritting my teeth against the strain of lifting the shifter.
I whisper another strengthening spell just as I hear the witches enter the grimoire room beneath me.
Go, go, go, I urge my body. My magic is reaching its limits. My arms and legs are still holding out, but the spell that was supposed to help has barely taken the edge off my strain.
Low, gravelly growls fill the chamber beneath me, the sound raising the hairs on the nape of my neck. I hear one of the lamassu snarl and a witch shriek.
An explosive spell shakes the ground, and I nearly lose my balance, wobbling with the shifter in my arms.
I’m more than halfway up the steps when I hear someone near the base of the staircase. I barely have time to process that they’ve managed to get past the lamassu when a spell slams into my back.
I scream, briefly collapsing against the railing as the same flesh-eating curse burns against my skin.
EMPRESS! Memnon roars in my head, and now there is no question about it: he is panicking on my behalf.
Keep going. Keep going.
Beneath me, I can hear the witch whispering another spell. I tense, but the hit never comes. Instead, one of the lamassu snarls.
A moment later, the witch screams, and I catch sight of her falling, the lamassu’s teeth piercing her leg. She and I make eye contact, and hers are full of terror as the beast drags her out of sight.
I take a shuddering breath, ashamed of the relief I feel, and I force my legs to keep going. As soon as I do so, I have to grit my teeth against the cry that wants to work its way out. I manage to bite it back, but I can’t seem to stop the tears from slipping down my cheeks.
Goddess, but the pain. It’s all-consuming.
I force myself up each step by sheer will, repeatedly banging the girl’s legs into the railing.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I gasp, even though I know she can’t hear me. She still hasn’t woken up.
Beneath me, there are prolonged screams.
I’m nearly to the top of the staircase when another spell ricochets against the wall and crashes into my calf, slicing it open. I scream as my leg gives out.
EMPRESS! Memnon bellows. HOLD FAST! I AM COMING!
Just before I hit the ground, I cover the shifter’s head, and it’s my own skull that cracks against the top stair.
Everything whites out for an instant.
Then I’m blinking the world back into focus, and I hear screams, and the scent of magic is pounding in my head, and above it all, fear that isn’t my own floods my system.
TAKE IT.
“Memnon?” I whisper out loud.
I’m still blinking, still trying to make sense of the world even as I’m forcing myself to my feet, dragging the shifter up with me. I can’t stop the cry I let out as I force my injured leg to bear our weight.
There are a dozen different spells I could use to alleviate the pain or help the wound mend itself, but between the fear and the pain and my growing exhaustion, I can’t seem to think of a single one.
Need to get the shifter to safety.
I stumble up the last of the stairs. My legs shake, my lungs and shoulder and back burn, and I can feel my hot blood running down my leg and warming my skin.
TAKE MY MAGIC. I wince at the sound of Memnon’s voice inside me.
Is that what he meant? Take his magic?
NOW, MATE.
Ugh, “mate.”
EST AMAGE. TAKE IT.
“Stop yelling at me,” I moan, staggering away from the stairs and toward a carved wooden door ahead of me. I’ve only taken two steps when the blood seeping from my calf wound begins to bubble and boil against my skin.
I cry out from the fresh new pain.
Now why would my wound do that…?
The spell must’ve been a curse. A really shitty one.
I stumble the last few feet to the door and awkwardly grab the knob, nearly dropping the limp girl in my arms. I just manage to twist it open, and then me and the shifter fall through it. I barely have time to twist my body so I’m the one who hits the wet earth and not the girl.
We’re outside.
I let out an exhausted huff. That feels like a win all on its own.
I smell the forest around us, and when I look back toward the open doorway, I see the door itself has been carved into the trunk of a tree, though the interior of the tree appears to be far larger than its exterior.
Magic, man…
I still hear the distant sounds of witches fighting and screaming inside, but I doubt the lamassu will hold them all off for much longer.
I try to get up, but my entire body is protesting. I whimper at my various wounds. My magic and my adrenaline are wearing away. I don’t know how much more I have in me.
By the love of all our gods, little witch, Memnon says, please—I am begging you—take what I am offering!
What you’re offering? I feel it then, through that magical river that seems to flow right to my heart.
Power. Endless power. More than anyone has any business handling.
I don’t understand how he’s siphoning it to me, and I don’t bother to consider the repercussions of using this sorcerer’s magic. I reach for it.
I gasp as it pours into me. The pain from my various injuries grows dull, and my fatigue vanishes entirely.
I rise to my feet, picking up the unconscious girl once more.
And then I run.
Need to get to shifter territory. That’s all I can think as I sprint.
I sense the boundary line ahead of me, but it feels like it might as well be in a different country.
I stumble over roots, and twigs and rocks cut into the soft pads of my feet. I clench my teeth against the sensation of blood dripping down my calf.
Later. I’ll deal with it all later.
I can’t hear the witches behind me anymore, and I’m starting to gain confidence when the girl in my arms begins to gag.
I don’t want to stop running, not when bloodthirsty witches who practice the dark arts want to enslave this girl’s will to another.
But I also don’t want her to choke on her own vomit.
I stop and let her down. She’s not even conscious. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I lay her on her side, focusing my attention on her.
Whatever they gave her, I’m afraid she’s been given too much.
She gags again, and it’s clear that the substance in her system needs to come out.
Gently, I press a hand to her stomach. “Purge,” I command, pressing my borrowed power into her flesh.
The sunrise-orange magic billows out from beneath my palm, then sinks into her skin.
She lunges forward and retches violently. I try not to make a face at what comes up, but I can smell the tainted magic lacing her vomit.
She throws up again. And again.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, combing her hair back, wincing as I feel a tug in my injured shoulder.
There must be more poison within her, poison that’s entered her bloodstream. It too needs to be removed from her system.
Placing a hand on her chest and another on her back, I grab Memnon’s power and coax it down my arms to my palms.
“Dissolve the poison within,” I command in Sarmatian.
Then I force my power into the girl.
Her back arches, and her eyes snap open. She begins to scream, and I have to grit my teeth and brace myself as magic battles magic within her.
I continue to force as much healing power into her as possible, overwhelming the toxin slipping through her veins. I sway a little, the sustained effort making me feel faint.
A branch cracks somewhere in the distance. Then I hear the crackle of crunching pine needles.
They’re still coming.
Beneath my hands, the girl is shaking, but her cries have tapered off to whimpers. She’s still not awake, not in any real sense. I swallow as worry engulfs me.
She’s defenseless like this.
I lean toward her and whisper an incantation under my breath, one that feels as old as the language I’m speaking in. “I offer you my protection. My magic will defend you. My blood will spill before yours does. This I vow.”
The oath feels like a memory, like déjà vu.
The footsteps draw near, no doubt because the witches heard the girl’s cries.
I can still sense the slick poison slipping through her, but I have to let her go and hope the magic I pressed into her will be enough.
I force myself up on shaky legs, turning to face the approaching witches.
In the darkness I can barely make them out. There aren’t as many of them now, maybe five or six. And the monster is still unaccounted for.
I pull magic up from the earth and draw it down from the dark moon, and I siphon still more from that magical river flowing into me. My power gathers and builds, forming just beneath my skin as I face the witches.
They’re no longer wearing masks, but unfortunately, the darkness hides their features.
“Attack,” I whisper, releasing my magic. It snaps out of me like serpents. The mental visual must be doing something because I see my magic pull back, then strike much the same way a snake would. Witches yelp and cry out.
A spell hits me, one that causes my attack to dissolve. Another follows, striking me square in the chest and knocking me back into the earth. This second spell locks up my muscles, and in mere seconds, I’m frozen; I can breathe but not much else. I can’t even move my eyes.
A third spell hits my hip as I lie there, this one a dirty crimson color. I know just by the look of it that this one is bad. And then I feel it.
If I could scream, I would.
It’s as though I’m being stabbed in twenty different places. Maybe I am. I’m choking on blood, or maybe my lungs are simply seizing up.
SELENE! STAY WITH ME. Memnon forces his magic into me, and I reach for it, letting it slip through me and fight off the curse that’s flaying me open.
DO YOU SEE YOUR ENEMIES? MARK THEM, EST AMAGE, THEY ARE NOW MY OWN.
“She’s hit,” one of the witches says.
“Does it look like I care? That fucking cunt nearly ripped off my leg.”
“Enough,” a third one says.
Memnon’s power must be working because the pain from the curse is dying down, and I’m able to move my eyes.
So I can see one of the witches prowling over, her toenails painted a soft pink color. For some reason, that strikes me as ridiculous, given the situation.
She crouches next to me, her straight black hair brushing my cheek. “When the others get to you, you’re going to wish you hadn’t done shit tonight,” she whispers, looking down on me.
She lifts her hand, and I’m not sure if it’s to slap me or strike me with another spell, but I want to scream because I can’t do anything but lie here, prone.
The witch flashes me a nasty smile. “Payback’s a bit—” A black shadow collides with her, and I hear her scream. It cuts out, replaced by the meaty sound of ripping flesh.
There are more screams and more meaty sounds. Now I’m able to tilt my head just a little. A massive shadow is pinning one of the witches, and it jerks its head, tearing out a section of flesh. The creature pauses to glance over at me, its eyes glinting eerily in the darkness.
I recognize those eyes.
Nero!
I want to cry because he’s here, defending me. He roars, then lunges toward another witch.
I see a flash of cobalt-blue magic whoosh toward him.
In an instant I’m in his mind. Get down!
His body lowers, pressing flush against the ground, and the spell whizzes harmlessly past him.
I’m out of his head in an instant, dragging as much of Memnon’s magic into me as I can, until it’s flushing out the last of the spells that cling to my body.
I thought I was panicked before, but now knowing that my familiar is taking on a group of bloodthirsty witches all on his own—I’m petrified for him.
My fingers and toes twitch, then my hands and wrists, feet and ankles. I want to scream at how painfully slow it’s going.
Before I get full motor function back, I sense one of the witches grabbing the shifter girl behind me.
No!
I fling my magic out without a spell, letting the cords of it find the witch. As soon as they do, my power wraps around the witch’s ankles and yanks her off her feet.
She grunts as she hits the ground hard. Before she can get up, my familiar is on her—
I cringe at the wet sound of him biting into her. I slip into his mind, coaxing my familiar to let the witch go. Reluctantly, he does so.
From his eyes, I peer around us. The witches all appear to be accounted for. Several of them lie on the ground, moaning. Two more are limping away together. Nero’s nostrils flare at the smell of so much blood.
I move back from his mind to my own. I’ve regained enough control of my body to turn on my side and retch, my body wanting to purge the pain and the spells and all the gruesome sights of the evening.
Nero prowls over to me and nudges me onto my back again. I groan as I flop onto my injured shoulder.
My familiar puts a paw on my chest, and he gives me an intense and—I swear to the goddess—irritated look. Normally, I have to guess at Nero’s more complex thoughts, but for some reason, this one is clear: Call on me for help.
I swallow and nod. “Thank you,” I murmur.
It takes another full minute for the immobilizing spell to completely wear off, even with the help of Memnon’s borrowed magic.
Once it does, I hobble over to the shifter girl. She’s no longer screaming, which is good, but she’s not awake, and she’s far too still for my liking. Kneeling at her side, I check her pulse.
It’s there—and it sounds strong and steady.
I think she’s going to be okay.
“Give me strength,” I murmur in Sarmatian, the words forming as I draw on more of Memnon’s power.
His magic flares through my body, lending me his might.
I lug the girl into my arms once more, trying not to think about just how much I’m in Memnon’s debt. I’ve used a lot of his power tonight.
Got to get to shifter territory. I can worry about the sorcerer later. The most important thing is making sure this girl is safe.
I’ve taken maybe five steps when a monstrous roar fills the night air.
Well, fuck. There’s the monster. Now he’s accounted for.
And I think he’s after my ass.
CHAPTER 28
I hate running. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
That’s all I can think as I trip over roots and half stumble, half sprint through the Everwoods, my wounds so numerous, they’ve become one massive ache, one that Memnon’s power is no longer able to fully dull.
Oh, and there’s a monster somewhere in the forest at my back.
Nero lopes next to me, his eyes glinting in the darkness.
