by Paul Duffau
Sasha held her hand in a spell that Kenzie didn’t recognize and, without her own magic, couldn’t analyze or defeat. “You do not give orders here, nor do you have an authority to tell me what is proper.”
Shocked at this brazenness, Kenzie bit back her retort. She drew a breath of delicious, pain-free air. For the first time in . . . how long? . . . she could think. She dropped her gaze to Harold, who lay with his head averted. A wave of sympathy filled her and she whispered to him, “I’m sorry.”
Harold’s whole body rocked back and forth, but he kept his head turned from her. A perfectly shaped tear glistened at the corner of the one eye she could see. “Nothing is your fault. All this started years ago.”
Sasha stalked toward them, wearing a smile that slashed with cruelty. “We will rectify the mistakes of the past,” she said to Harold. Switching to Kenzie, she continued in a mocking tone that made Kenzie curl her hands into fists. “Starting with the one that put the Families in jeopardy. You, McKenzie, will do your duty. You will bind us to the Rubieras. You will make amends for the shameful conduct of that . . . that tramp.”
Kenzie met Sasha’s eyes with fire in her own. When I get free . . .
“Elowyn followed her heart and the science,” Harold said, his voice muffled in his shoulder. He still would not turn his face.
“She broke our laws!”
“Oh yes, because the laws of humans always trump those of nature.” Harold rolled away and clambered to his feet. “McKenzie faces the same choice, and if you had an ounce of wisdom, you’d let her make it.”
The confidence in his voice made Kenzie stare. The wizard was up to something.
Sasha missed the tone. Face screwed up into a feral snarl, she conjured her retaliation and launched it. Liquid surrounded Harold. Drops fell to the ground, where they smoldered and emitted caustic fumes.
Harold laughed with bitterness. “Did you think that I would allow you a second attack? You survived the war. You should know better.” He raised a hand to clear the air, wiping the vileness away like he was shooing flies.
Hope and a fierce desire for instant revenge filled Kenzie’s chest. His next words crushed both.
“I may not have sufficient power to stop you from the evil that you are doing, but that doesn’t mean I am totally helpless.”
Sasha spun to face Kenzie. “So courageous of him. He protects himself but not you. Such a man.” It may have been directed at her, but Kenzie sensed that the comment was meant for Harold, another assault using words as weapons in a code that she didn’t understand.
Flushed, Harold stepped between Sasha and Kenzie. He put his back to the leader of the Family, which drew a hiss at the disrespect. In a whisper that approached silence, he said quickly, “People search all over the world for magic, when all along it resides in our hearts. Look there.”
Sasha slapped him across his ear and Harold wobbled. Kenzie’s eyes went wide. Somehow, despite the cruelty visited on her by Sasha’s magic, it had never occurred to her that the woman would resort to physical violence. As Harold fled Sasha, Kenzie got a glimpse of the loathing that roiled across the features of all three of the opposing wizards.
As Harold scurried away, abandoning Kenzie, Sasha sneered. “Do you know why he won’t look at you?” She grabbed Kenzie by the chin and raised her voice to make sure that Harold would hear every word. “You would like them for your own, wouldn’t you?” Sasha’s stare burned. Contempt directed at Harold dripped like poison. “Wouldn’t you? Then the boys would like you more.”
The significance of the words slithered past the terror of being left alone again with the female wizards.
The Magic must survive. Harold’s very existence refuted that directive. His solitary confinement suddenly made sense. He would never have a family, never have children. He was an affront to the Family and the women who ran it. As the man left her sight, Kenzie had never felt more sorry for anyone and, strangely, encouraged.
“Now, where were we?”
Harold had survived the Family. So could she.
Chapter 38
The wracking screams from his nerves vanished like a switch had been flipped, and Mitch was left gasping at the searing memory. Mercury’s face swam before him. With an effort, Mitch focused.
Mercury had one eyebrow lifted in a quizzical curl. “Back with us?” He was crouched like a little kid studying an insect. “Well, you may as well get up.” He stood and extended a hand.
Mitch waved it off. He remembered falling through the door. Either Harold or Mercury had put a throw pillow under his head. He levered himself up with a jerk that pulled his legs off the floor and, in one smooth motion, pivoted to a crouch, balancing with his fingertips to the floor. Slowly, he straightened and took in his surroundings.
He rolled his shoulders, flexed his arms, and took a step. Mercury retreated to give him room. If anything, the question marks on the man’s brow intensified. Taking a deep breath, Mitch said, “Thanks.” On impulse, he checked his arm. A tiny puckered scar perched on his flexed bicep. “Left me another trophy?”
Mercury cleared his throat. “I did nothing, not a spell, potion, or salve. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Then who healed—”
“I’m not talking about just whatever healed you. You were writhing in agony and shouting about McKenzie. Harold took one look and bolted out the door to the Glade faster than I’ve ever seen him move. His last instructions were not to touch you in any way, so I didn’t.”
“Who’s older?”
Mercury snorted. “He is. What difference does it make?”
“None, I guess, except you aren’t the kind to take orders. I was curious.” He looked at the two armchairs. The window that framed them looked out to a dangerously dark wood with a bloody moon soaking the landscape. His voice picked up urgency. “Where’s your brother? We should be helping Kenzie.”
Mercury made a whirling motion with his pointer finger. “You’re always curious. Now, explain for me how you got that rather distinctive scar.”
Mitch strode to the far end of the den to where the other wooden door stood ajar. As Mitch reached for the handle, it closed with a solid thud and the lock mechanism clacked into place.
Mitch whirled, jaw set. “Open the door.”
Mercury dipped his chin. “If Harold had wanted help he would have taken me. You would be a hindrance to him, a dangerous one.” Mercury approached with slow, cautious steps.
Mitch shook his head violently and his voice became choked with emotion. “You asked me to protect her.” He met Mercury’s gaze. The old wizard’s features folded into the patient, forgiving countenance of a priest who could grant absolution but not erase the sin. Mitch took one step toward him. “Let me do my job, do what I’m supposed to do.” Mercury’s expression did not change. “Please,” Mitch pleaded, “let me help her.” He blinked rapidly but refused to look away.
Mercury put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, son, I know.” He seemed to be having trouble with his voice, too. “I asked you to be a hero and now I’m asking you to do the hardest thing a hero ever does . . . nothing.” He searched Mitch’s face. “If you go through that door, I am certain that you and McKenzie will perish. So will Harold and I, but that’s irrelevant. We know our duty. We never expected that we would be relying on an untrained youngster to fill your role. Maybe that taints our thinking, but not on this. Where Harold went, you can’t go and survive. If you do not survive, you can’t save McKenzie. It really is that easy,” he said, putting a forefinger on Mitch’s chest, “except in here, boyo, where it all hurts.”
“I’ve got to do something!”
“You can answer some questions, starting with your encounter with Cailida Rubiera.”
Mitch’s gaze was fixated on the door. “Who?”
“I recognize the scar on your arm.” Mercury tapped Mitch’s bicep. “I have a matching one.”
Startled, Mitch swung his attention to the wizard. “Hunter’s mom.”
Mercury acknowledged the answer with a dip of his chin. “She is a formidable wizard but is . . . emotionally challenged, shall we say. Her husband is at least consistent, for all his rather repugnant beliefs. In battle, they are a perfectly matched pair, both able to handle offense and defense on a moment’s—”
“Hold up.” In the back of Mitch’s head, connections sparked across synapses. Hunter’s comment when they broke into the chem lab to steal supplies, the pairing of the guards, Rubiera’s command to defend. “Wizards can only handle one spell at a time?” He frowned. “The red wizard can handle multiple spells. If she can, others must be able to.”
Mercury snorted in negation.
Mitch snorted right back. “I watched the whole thing. Action, reaction. She was handling the whole thing herself. She held all four of us pinned like insects to a board after wiping out about a dozen badass dudes.” He turned his face into a grimace and stared into Mercury’s eyes. “If the Rubieras are supposed to be formidable, then what’s the red wizard? Next to her, they were toddlers.”
Mercury’s expression would have made Mitch laugh, except for the sudden realization that the old man was taken completely by surprise. Somehow, he’d assumed that Mercury had all the important answers. That he didn’t was disturbing.
“Who, pray tell,” asked Mercury, his vocal cords strangled by surprise, “is the red wizard?” He made a circular motion with his hand as if to encourage Mitch.
At least Mercury trusted him enough to not coerce the information. Efficiently, Mitch recounted his abduction and the battle, while the unwelcome knowledge that he’d counted too much on the wizard grew into a hard, heavy rock in his chest. So too did the accusation that he’d killed Lassiter’s henchman. The need to know competed with the desire to remove it completely and forever from his memory. In the end, he simply had no choice. “Did I kill Lassiter’s guy when he shot at me?”
Mercury, deep in thought about the revelation of a previously unheard-of wizard, was slow to answer. When he did look up, Mitch waited for him to lie to him. Mercury’s face folded and creased together. Mitch was reminded again of a gunfighter, but this one, with his face of old cracked leather, looked back to the past, measured himself, and found regret. Before the wizard spoke, Mitch knew the answer.
Gently, as though he were cleaning a painful wound, Mercury said, “You appear to have broken his neck.”
Eyes shut tight, Mitch pitched forward onto his knees, fists clenched until the joints felt ready to burst the skin. I am like my dad. I keep trying not to be, but . . .
“It was very literally self-defense, Mitch. And in defense of Kenzie. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But you didn’t tell me, did you?” He remembered the way his foot caught the man, just before the searing pain that left a scar along his forehead, and remembered Garrett, and the dead men at Rubiera’s estate. The bodies were piling up, and some of them, maybe all of them, were his responsibility.
Mercury’s normally gruff voice dropped into sorrow and compassion. “Mitch, we do things that must be done, not because we enjoy it, but so that others do not have to. There have always been men—women, too—who step forward in defense of their child, or family, or tribe, to protect them from the human predators. We need our heroes, big and small, to make the important differences in the world. For some of us, it means being the ready edge of a sword, one we hope never needs to leave the scabbard, but when violence is promised us, we hone our blades and do the dirty work.
“It wasn’t fair, but that is what I asked of you when I asked you to protect McKenzie. In the end, we do what we must. I know the cost and, if I had any other option, I would never have asked it of you. I’d have let you live out life without ever bringing you back to the thin boundary between civilization and our animal selves.
“When you chose to rush into the street to save a stranger, you made a choice to defend the noble side of the boundary. It sounds old-fashioned, but there is honor in the way of the warrior, honor but little in the way of accolades. You’ll toil and struggle and perhaps die, and most people will never notice, or worse, believe that you are the problem. But know this, too: the families of the warriors know their worth.
“McKenzie knows.”
Mercury fell silent, but Mitch could feel the weight of the man’s gaze, the weight of expectation. He didn’t want to be a hero. He wanted to be left alone, him and Kenzie. He measured himself in the role of protector and found himself short.
Why me?
Stay strong. For Kenzie, he’d try. Now, get up.
He struggled to regain his feet. He swayed and grasped the back of Mercury’s armchair.
He opened his eyes at the same time as the far door swung wide. Harold, features set in deep creases of humiliation, stepped into the den from an alien landscape.
Alone.
“Where’s Kenzie?” demanded Mitch.
Chapter 39
The three women were huddled together. Despite Sasha’s suggestion that the punishment would resume, nothing had happened since they’d chased Harold out. Kenzie went from confused to enlightened at the harried glance from Agnes as she handed off the barrier spell to Bethany. Kenzie met the woman’s apprehensive stare with a scowling smile that promised retribution.
Harold had bestowed a gift on her. His healing had left her physically recharged.
The women were tired from exerting magic without a break for . . . how long?
It had felt like days or even longer before Harold had appeared. It couldn’t have been that long, though, despite all the passing out. A sickening stench of a memory remained. Below her were bits of flayed flesh, her flesh, and old blood, her blood, staining the ground black. They would pay and pay and pay some more. Soon. Somehow.
Sasha broke from the trio and seemed to glide over to Kenzie. She was the freshest, not having taken the duty of divorcing Kenzie from magic. Instead, she’d delivered the withering blows. No enjoyment showed in Sasha’s face at her cruelty except for a perverse glitter in her eyes, mirrored in her pair of accomplices. Now, though, ruddy spots on her cheeks hinted at suppressed anger.
Kenzie waited, courage quaking in her chest, but not her face. That she kept fixed in a rigid mask of revenge.
“It is a shame that he interfered,” Sasha began, in a brittle and high-pitched voice. “You will submit.” She reacted to the look of scorn leaking out from Kenzie’s eyes with a sneer. “We will rest in turns. In the meantime, you will weaken.” Sasha moved her hand in a wide downward sweep.
Goose bumps broke out on Kenzie’s exposed skin, and she gasped. The temperature drop was at least thirty degrees. When she exhaled, her breath misted in the air. Even the trees of the Glade seemed to shiver with the breeze that flowed to the epicenter of the winter weather.
“I’ll freeze,” protested Kenzie. Icy sheets of air stole her body heat. She quelled her panicky tongue before it could betray the extent of her fear. Pain she could endure, but the idea of slowly freezing to death was abhorrent to her.
“That is completely up to you, but I doubt that you have the kind of courage to be a martyr.”
Sasha’s mocking tone, colder than the air turning Kenzie’s skin white, fired the latent flames of rage. Desperate to strike back, to hurt the vile woman, she opened her mouth to deliver a rebuke. Words were her only weapon. Simultaneously, she recalled Jules’s admonitions: Bend it to your will. Jules had been referring to managing her anger, but how many times had the black belt taught her to redirect attacks to create advantages. Now was such a time, and she knew precisely how to accomplish it. I control myself.
She lifted her head and put on her sweetest smile. “I forgive you.” She put all the sincerity she could into the words. Billowing rage burned in Sasha’s eyes, but Kenzie held her gaze.
One of the women, it sounded like Agnes, whispered, “. . . Elowyn.”
Sasha pivoted and stalked away. “You,” she said to Bethany, “keep her under control. If her prattli
ng bothers you, feel free to discipline her, but do so physically. At no time are you to release her to touch the magic.” To Agnes, she jerked her head. “Go, rest.”
Kenzie wondered what kind of physical punishment Bethany could deliver that was worse than what they had already done to her. For her part, Bethany wore trepidation like poorly applied makeup, lips painted too pale, face too white, eyes drawn too wide. The other two wizards left.
Kenzie briefly probed her magic. Still blocked. Tremors wracked her body. Intentionally, she relaxed her muscles. She let the cold in, suppressing her body’s natural instinct to shiver and create warmth. She needed to accelerate the process. The longer it went on, the weaker she would get and the more rested her tormentors would be.
The ropes at her wrists chafed as she sagged, surrendering to gravity and conserving energy. The pressure threatened to pull her arms from their shoulder sockets. She disregarded it. As she rested her body, she rested her mind, letting it go almost blank. Almost, but not quite, as Harold’s whispered imperative, Look there, echoed.
The old codger never did anything without a reason. Kenzie quieted the rapid-fire thoughts and plans for revenge, building a stillness that let the deeper part of her mind go to work. While it did, she sought her center, because that would be Jules’s advice. Soon, her eyes drifted closed and her lungs filled in long, steady breaths.
The warm waters of the lagoon held her up. She drifted on its surface, face to the moon, spread-eagled for buoyancy, and her ears underwater. The thunder of the waterfall that she was accustomed to was transformed to deep a bass song of nature. The waves lapped at her skin as she bobbed gently up and down with each breath.
Kenzie sensed a momentary disorientation. Was this her, or another dream of Elowyn? It didn’t matter. . . .
All around Kenzie, she could feel the magic of the Glade. It borrowed from each of them all the time. Stringers of force flowed to the Glade like ribbons to a maypole and the people danced around it, unaware that they had made it, and made it both beautiful and tragic.
