Devon Monk - Magic on the Storm

I ran.

Chase’s knife found its target, buried hilt deep into Zay’s back. He yelled. And I heard it. Because Terric’s Containment was down.

Chase chanted. Fast, guttural. She was crying. And she was casting a spell.

The bitch.

Apparently magic was still working for her.

Zay stumbled, touched the ground with one hand, and pushed back up. Running. Pounding forward.

He was almost on Greyson. Spells and steel. He swung the machete.

Thunder rolled, a hard, crushing crack I felt in my bones. A gate between life and death burned into the air, yawned open between Terric and Zay.

Chase was a Closer. She knew how to close gates. She knew how to open them too.

Greyson let go of Terric, and lunged at Zayvion.

He leaped through the gate. From one side to the other. Onto Zay.

Terric rolled up on his knees. Raised a hand, threw magic at Greyson, at the gate.

Zay swung his sword, chanting a spell of pain and death.

But it was Greyson I heard. His growl. His howl. As he drank down all the magic, everything Terric threw. Everything Chase offered. Everything Zay swung. Sucked it all in. Then howled as Zay’s machete sliced into his ribs.

Except there was no blood.

What there was, was Greyson. Standing. More man than beast now. Muscled, naked, angry. Insane.

He cast magic, in exact and perfect rhythm and beauty with Chase.

Soul Complements.

Beautiful, battered, she moved up behind Zayvion, holding him trapped, the magic from her hands, the magic from Greyson’s hands, caging Zay and burning into his skin.

Burning into me.

Soul Complements. Rarest of the rare. We shared each other’s pain.

Just because Chase and Greyson hadn’t tested didn’t mean they weren’t meant for each other. Didn’t mean they couldn’t use magic together. Didn’t mean they couldn’t make magic do things it was never meant to do.

Didn’t mean they couldn’t become one person, one caster, one soul.

With one desire.

Kill Zayvion Jones.

I was almost there, almost there. My heart ran faster than my feet. My mind spun.

Greyson and Chase cast, chanted, bent magic to their will. Made it beautiful. Horrifying. And tore Zayvion apart.

Hold on, hold on, hold on. A chant, a fear I could not contain. Spilling out of me. With my breath. With his blood.

I could feel Zayvion’s heartbeat slowing. Too slow. Thudding. Heavy. Gone. Watched him fall to the ground. For a second, a moment, I saw him, on the ground, but also standing next to himself-seven-foot-tall warrior clothed in nothing but black flame and silver glyphs. Freed from his body, he still carried a shadow of the machete.

He swung it at Greyson’s head.

Just as Chase cast another spell, and threw it at the gate.

Greyson roared, a yell, more beast than man. The gate exploded, tendrils of magic whipping out tentacles, like fire, like a nightmare I could not stop, could not reach, could not end.

“No!” I yelled.

But the tendrils hooked into the dark warrior spirit of Zayvion and dragged him into the gate.

Something huge, fast, ran behind me, ran past me.

Shame?

No. Stone. Howling like a freight train from hell, he launched at Greyson. Wings pumped the air, and he came down, crushing the Necromorph into the ground.

Chase screamed. Fell to her knees. Lost hold of magic.

With her spell no longer feeding it, and Greyson’s spell no longer feeding it, the gate closed.

Zayvion did not move. Did not breathe. I felt the absence of his heartbeat like a ragged pain emptying me of everything-thought, heart, breath.

Emptying me of everything except anger.

I strode across the remaining distance, my sword drawn. Terric lay in a bloody heap to my left. I could still feel his heartbeat against my wrist.

Greyson snarled and squirmed beneath the crushing weight of Stone. Chase knelt, not far from both the gargoyle and the Necromorph, hands over her face, as if she endured, or maybe even Proxied for, the beating Greyson was receiving.

There was no magic in me. The approaching edge of the storm had sucked it out. I couldn’t access the magic deep in the earth. I didn’t know why.

But I had a backup. The magic I’d always had in me, the magic I was born with. A tiny flame no bigger than the flicker of a birthday candle.

I had just enough magic to cast one spell. And I was not going to waste it.

“Stone,” I said. “Tear him apart.”

The big bruiser snarled. Greyson and Chase screamed in unison. Music to my ears.

I knelt next to Zayvion. Bloody, bruised, he was mostly intact. A trail of blood tracked down his forehead, slick over his closed eyes and his nose, and filling the valley of his soft, thick lips.

I didn’t have to press my hand against his neck or wrist. I knew he had no heartbeat.

And I knew I had only a little magic.

I closed my eyes, calmed my mind. Focused on the small magic within me. I placed my hand on his chest, over his heart.

“Live,” I whispered. “Breathe.”

The magic spooled out of me like a thin thread. No spell. I didn’t need one. I knew what I wanted magic to do, knew what it had to do for me. I sent it to wrap around his heart, to make it beat, to squeeze his lungs, to make him breathe.

“Live.” No longer a request. Now a demand. Soul to soul.

If I could give my heart to replace his, I would. My breath for his, I would. My life for his, I would.

“Please,” I whispered.

Nothing. Nothing. I inhaled. And so did he. Shallow. His heart beat one slow thud.

I exhaled.

And so did he.

I don’t know how long I sat there, able to do nothing more than inhale and exhale, his heart a hesitant beat that followed my own, but a beat nonetheless. But I knew I would do this until the end of time if it meant he was alive.

A hand slid over the top of mine. I didn’t open my eyes. I knew who it was. The rough brush of fingerless gloves belonged to Shame.

“Keep doing that,” he said gently, his voice low. “You’re doing fine. Just keep breathing for him.”

Live , I thought, I begged. Because a body needed more than breath to be alive.

Another hand fell upon my right hand. Cold, trembling. The unfamiliarity almost made me lose concentration.

“Positive and negative,” Terric said, and I knew it was he who held my other hand.

I don’t know what they did, don’t know how they did it. I couldn’t access magic, but they did. Magic, a pure, even stream of it, poured in through my hands. And I sent that magic, willingly, carefully, gently into Zay, told it to knit, to mend, to fill, to support.

“Heal,” I said.

And magic leaped to my desire, rushing through Zayvion’s body and mind with a pure wave of healing.

He inhaled. Without me.

His heart beat. Steadied. Caught and lifted by magic, magic Shame and Terric accessed, magic I sent to blend with the small magic I carried. Magic that healed.

His heartbeat fell into a solid rhythm. Another breath. Another. The rhythm of his heart beneath my hand, against my wrist, beat stronger, strong.

Alive.

I opened my eyes.

Zay didn’t stir. There was more blood covering his face. He was breathing, though, on his own. With my hands still on his chest, with Shame’s hand still on my left, and Terric’s still on my right, I bent, and kissed Zay, his blood salty against my lips.

He didn’t move. I didn’t sense a flicker of his emotions, his thoughts. It was like kissing a hollow doll.

A new fear washed over me, so like claustrophobia, I swallowed back a whimper. “Is he alive? Shame? Is he alive? I can’t feel him. Can’t-can’t feel him.” My voice was ragged, too high, too fast.

I wanted this nightmare to end. But I couldn’t make myself wake up.