Jessica Andersen - Magic Unchained

Rage caught up with him then. Someone had done this to her. Who? Why? He didn’t know, couldn’t deal with it now. But fury flowed through him, then coalesced to a cold, icy vow: He was going to get her out of this no matter what it took. He was going to find whoever had done this to her. And he was going to fucking kill them.

He hacked through the chest strap and loosened one wrist, and she reared up, clutching at him as she shuddered and coughed, sucking in huge, ragged breaths. Her hair was plastered to her face, so black against her pasty white skin that she looked entirely colorless until her eyes blinked open and locked on his, twin gleams of honeyed brown that were warm, vibrant, and totally at odds with the world around them. “Cara.” The word was a pained groan that ripped at his chest, coming from the place where he kept all the things he couldn’t say.

“Hurry,” she whispered between trembling, colorless lips. “Cut the others.” The water was up to her throat and climbing.

He fumbled with the rest of her bonds, sawing through the one at her hips and then fucking ripping the last ankle strap free on a convulsive heave that was part fury, part relief. Then he dragged her into his arms and clutched her close. “Jesus gods.” He buried his face in the crook of her neck. “I thought you were already gone.”

She burrowed in, held on. “I’m f-freezing.”

He wasn’t much better off, his body cold, his wet clothes plastered to him. But now that he had her, knew she was alive, fury kindled in his chest. “Who did this?”

She hesitated, but then turned her face away and said in a low voice, “Zane planned it, with Lora helping. I don’t know if any of the others were involved.”

“Son of a—” He broke off, knowing now wasn’t the time and anger wasn’t what she needed. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” Sorrier than she knew, because he’d been fucking watching those two and he hadn’t seen it. Rage turned his insides murderously cold, and he felt like part of Mac was inside him, telling him to find, fight, kill! Not now, though. She needed him, and for a change he was there. It was a new, humbling sensation, one that put a funny twist in his throat as he gathered her tighter against his chest. “We need to get the hell out of here. Can you swim?”

“Yes, I—”

His stomach sank as a rumbling noise started up, coming from gods only knew where, interrupting him. He scanned a full three-sixty for the cause, but didn’t find it.

“Look!” She pointed up, face blanking with new terror.

He followed her gesture and his heart stopped—seriously fucking stopped—at the sight of the cave roof dropping down toward them, running along a seam that hadn’t been visible before. Magic, machinery, it didn’t matter how it was moving, only that it was, and what it meant. Holy fucking shit.

They were in a trick cave, a damned magical hot spot.

The Nightkeepers’ original intersection, a circular ceremonial chamber buried beneath the main pyramid of Chichén Itzá, had been able to magically seal itself off and drop into the subterranean river below it, subjecting the magi trapped inside it to a near-death experience by drowning: one of the most sacred sacrifices, bringing the sufferers close to the gods themselves. The room at Chichén Itzá had been designed for the Godkeeper ceremony, and had worked only during the cardinal solstices and equinoxes. But although this was no cardinal day—it was just another freaking Tuesday—when Sven looked up, he saw that the zoo was way closer than it had started. More, only the lower halves of the coyotes were visible. Cara’s eyes, wide and terrified, snapped to his. “What is this place?”

“Doesn’t matter, because we’re getting out of here.” He threaded her fingers through his weapons belt. “Swim as hard as you can and don’t let go of me, no matter what. Okay?”

At her nod, he got an arm around her waist and, with a powerful thrust of his legs, launched them off the altar toward the cave opening.

The current grabbed them, tumbled them, but they fought it inch by inch, swimming hard. She struggled gamely beside him, but he could feel her flagging, her cold-sapped strength no match for his enhanced reserves. “I’ve got you,” he said over the rumble of the ceiling and the rush of water. “Just hang on.” He would get her out of there, get her safe, get whoever had done this to her. And then… Shit, he didn’t know what he was going to do then.

Suddenly, a new sound joined the rumble and the rush: a stone-on-stone grating noise that had the knots in his gut coiling to the snapping point.

“Look! Hurry!” Her voice cracked on the words, and she started swimming harder with a burst of terrified energy, headed for the place where a stone slab was sliding across the little bit of the cave mouth that was still visible.

“Shit.” He called his magic and threw a shield spell into the narrowing gap, but it fizzled and died, warning him that, same as the ceremonial chamber beneath Chichén Itzá, his magic wouldn’t work in the chamber. The low-level foxfire spell was the best he could do, and even those lights were dimming as the ceiling crowded them down to the waterline while, with a grating noise, the slab slid into place, trapping them.

Cara gave a wordless cry and stopped swimming to stare at the place where their exit had been. She turned back, looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Tell me you brought backup.”

“They’re on their way.” Gods willing, Mac had got the message across. “But without magic…” He trailed off. Even if Strike or Anna could detect them within the stone chamber, they wouldn’t be able to ’port in. And if they were truly locked inside a ritual chamber—and that was sure as hell what it seemed like—all the fireballs in the world wouldn’t be able to get them out until the cavern’s spell had run its course.

But what spell? What ritual? And by the gods, how was he going to get her out alive? She wasn’t a mage, didn’t have the same natural resilience he did. And although her big personality and the huge effect she had on him made him forget how small she was sometimes, he was acutely aware now of the size difference between them. She was light and lithe against him, and so fine boned he thought he could break her if he held on too hard.

Either she had shifted or he had changed his grip; he wasn’t sure. But they were holding each other now, wrapped around each other as they treaded muddy water. The magic must have closed off whatever outflow normally let the subterranean lake drain, because the water gradually stilled around them, leaving only the rumble of the ceiling as it dropped nearer and nearer still.

There was less than a foot of headroom left. They were running out of time. His mind raced. He had to do something. But what?

Cast the spell. It came to him on a whisper of thought, an urgency that seemed to come from the moist air around them. One of the foxfires touched the surface and blinked out, even though the spells could usually withstand water. This wasn’t normal water, though; it was water inside a ceremonial chamber, a magical hot spot. And maybe that was the answer. He might not know what ritual he was supposed to perform, but he was a coyote, and there were coyotes on the wall. Maybe his magic would be enough to trigger whatever spell needed to be completed before the chamber would drain. Please, gods, let it be enough.

Heart thudding suddenly in his chest, he lifted his knife and rasped, “I need to—”

“Do it,” she said. “I don’t care what it is; just do it. This is your world, not mine. You’re the one who’s got to get us out of here.” She tightened her grip on him for a beat, though he didn’t know if she was reassuring him or saying good-bye.