Jessica Andersen - Magic Unchained

“No.” He tried to yank away from her, tried to deny what he was sensing, what he had done. He succeeded in getting his hand free and breaking the bond, but he couldn’t get the truth out of his head.

Oh, gods. She hadn’t betrayed him.

But he had just betrayed the hell out of her.

“NO!” His shout echoed in a blast of power that was pure and gleaming, neither dark nor light, but a combination of the two. At his cry, the gray fog went utterly black and the hiss of dark magic rose up to a steampipe roar.

“Don’t let it through!” Myrinne cried. “Rabbit, for gods’ sake, shut it down!”

He stayed frozen, locked in place with horror as a presence boiled within the fog and then reached for him, whispering, Rabbie!

“No!” Myrinne lunged up and flung herself between him and the morphing cloud, then jolted and screamed when it lashed out at her, hit her. She was thrown back, struck the altar, convulsed, and went still.

Rabbit’s heart stopped.

The fog lifted from his eyes.

And he saw what he had done, what he had become.

“Myrinne!” He surged toward her, only to be brought up short by a blast of sound and power that came from behind him, nearly flattening him. He spun and saw the cloud fully for the first time—black and ugly, coiling from a split in what had to be the dark barrier. Revulsion lashed through him. Rage. “No!”

Flames shot from his fingertips, blasting into the cloud, which recoiled with a high keening noise. In his mind he heard, Rabbie, no! but he didn’t let that stop him. He didn’t know what that voice was—his mother, a demon, a member of the Banol Kax—but he didn’t care anymore. It was what had betrayed him, not Myrinne. And he had been so fucking hungry for a mother that he’d believed it. He hadn’t done the right things, asked the right questions. He’d been so caught up in wanting to know where he had come from, why he was the way he was, that he’d bought into the fantasy… and he’d become a monster. The dark barrier wasn’t the answer; the demons weren’t the good guys.

Shouting, he poured fire into the darkness again and again, moving forward as the cloud retreated back into the tear, then vanished. Even after it was gone, he kept hammering the rip in the barrier with his magic, building up layer after layer until there wasn’t a tear anymore, but rather a hard, scarlike strip.

Then he let the magic die and went down beside her on his knees. “Myrinne?”

There was no response. She was utterly still, her body twisted oddly, her muscles lax.

He caught her bloodied hand and matched their cuts. His reserves were drained but he didn’t care. She could have everything if that was what it took. He funneled his magic through the blood-link, giving her his power, his strength… and his love, though he didn’t have any right to offer it to her anymore.

She wasn’t responding. Dear gods, she wasn’t responding.

“Myrinne!” He dived through the link and into her mind, not looking for answers this time, but rather looking for her. But the place where she should have been echoed with emptiness. “Nooooo!” He howled the word within and without, roaring the denial of what he had done. His heart shuddered and threatened to stop entirely, and part of him thought that would be a relief. He couldn’t go on without her, couldn’t live knowing that he had killed her, that she had died with his accusations ringing in her ears.

Wait, said the pussy inside him, the smarter self that had believed in her all along. Wait. Don’t you see? There’s no such thing as coincidence.

“It’s all just the will of the gods,” he said, finishing the quote from the writs. “But what—”

Then he saw it. He fucking saw it.

And he knew what he had to do.

Sven was running through the forest, first on two legs and then on four, searching, always searching. Sharp frustration burned in his marrow. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be, but couldn’t find the way there. Where? He didn’t know, knew only that he was running out of time.

Up ahead, a break in the trees, a gleam of sunlight and stone, a burst of adrenaline. There! He charged along the path, burst into the clearing, saw the cave mouth, and—

Bright white flared across his senses and he staggered, banged into a carved stone wall, and leaned against it for support, chest heaving as his surroundings came clear. He was in the ball court at Skywatch, helping pack the last of the shield stones and fire-tipped rounds for the teleport to Guatemala.

And he’d blanked out for a minute there.

“You okay, man?”

Sven squinted, trying to place the winikin. “Yeah. I’m fine, Rog—Ritchie.” He stumbled over the name, though they’d been out humping equipment together for a couple of hours already. Meeting too many new people in three short days had his head feeling stuffed full. “Maybe dehydrated a little.”

“Here.” Ritchie tossed him a water bottle. “Don’t want you conking out on us in the middle of things.”

Sven caught it on the fly. Although he wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity, some of the winikin—most of them, actually—seemed to be accepting his involvement. “Thanks.”

He drained the bottle and set it aside while he tried successfully to keep from puking, and unsuccessfully to keep from thinking about the vision, the dreams. He couldn’t not think about them, because the clock was ticking and his gut said that when they got to Che’en Yaaxil, he was going to recognize it, not just from the inside.

“Maybe you should chill until it’s time to leave,” Ritchie suggested. Which wouldn’t be long now. Unlike many of the Nightkeepers’ rituals, which happened either in the dark of night or at the exact moment of the equinox or solstice, the resurrection spell called for broad daylight. The winikin shouldered the last of the packs and started to head for the mansion, but then hesitated and turned back. “Do you want me—”

“I’ll be fine.” Sven waved him off. “You go ahead.” He was dealing, would keep dealing. “If you see Mac, point back this way and say, ‘Go to Sven,’ will you?” The coyote was out of range, and he was too light-headed to call him back.

“He’s right behind you.”

Sven froze. Then, trying not to let the other guy see him getting rattled, he glanced back over his shoulder to find Mac on his haunches nearby, with his head cocked in a Hello? Sitting right here, dude.

Which would’ve been fine… except the familiar bond was silent. There was none of the live-wire effect that told him Mac was nearby, and when Sven opened himself all the way up, he couldn’t hear the background chatter—typically a litany of warm sun, interesting smells, and itchy balls—that he usually tuned out.

He sent a thought-glyph: Speak?

Mac chuffed, still looking at him like he was an idiot.

What did we have for breakfast?

If the coyote could have furrowed his eyebrows, Mac would’ve been doing that and more. But there was no response… at least not one that Sven could hear.

The messages were getting out, but they weren’t coming in.

Oh, hell. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

Ritchie took another step back toward him. “You’re not okay. I’m going to call Cara, and—”

“No, don’t. I’ll find her myself.”

The winikin’s eyes narrowed. “I think I should go with you.”

Sven dredged up a reassuring smile that felt more like a grimace. “It’ll be fine. Don’t stress.” And don’t start any rumors about how the boss’s boyfriend is off his game. That’s the last thing we need.

Actually, the rumor was the next-to-last thing they needed. Having him actually off his game was the last.

“If you’re sure…”