She slid off his back, followed by Bedivere. In one heartbeat, the fire horse disappeared behind a dust storm and galloping hooves. Morganne’s heart pounded to the same rhythm. Bedivere squeezed her hand.
“The blue flame has dissipated,” Morganne said, though the smell of smoke and fear still lingered. “The witch kept her promise.”
“Do not be so sure,” Bedivere said, scouting the area. “She is as cunning as a wild fox.”
Morganne nodded, then cocked her head toward her homestead in the distance. “Come on,” Morganne urged, pulling away from the knight.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her. “We need to show caution. I’ll check the back of the cottage first. Wait here.”
Bedivere unsheathed his sword; the sound of its metallic twang grated on Morganne’s bones, and he ran, sword poised, scanning his surrounds as he scurried down the hillside toward her homestead.
Morganne bit her lip; she could not wait, no matter his warning. And she took flight as Bedivere disappeared from view.
With hesitant steps, she tiptoed into the cottage. Upon the floor, Amara looked up with dizzy confusion. She clasped her head with one hand, her forehead scrunched in pain.
“Morganne?” Amara questioned with gaping black eyes full of wonder. “We thought you were dead.”
Amara scrambled to her feet, swaying, and held the wall as she staggered toward her sister, then wrapped her in a weak embrace that spoke a thousand apologies in half a breath. Amara whispered, as heavy as a brewing storm, into her sister’s thick red curls. “We thought we lost you.”
Light footsteps hastened toward them. Followed by heavy, slow footfalls. Fae and Mother. They threw themselves into an embrace, clutching the returned girl as if they held the pieces of the universe in their arms and wished for them not to break apart.
Fae pulled away lightly. “The blue flame…” she rubbed her forehead, her usual clear ice-blue eyes dim with a painful haze. “It only just died down. What does it mean, Morganne?”
“It means we must hurry, the witch Emrysa is close, and she wants revenge. She is coming here to kill us, to kill our bloodline.” She cast her eyes at Mother, who clutched her throat as if she feared the words verging on escape. “We have no time for greetings or conversations. She’s here, somewhere, and we must kill her, now and forever. Banishment alone is not safe enough, as I now know too well.”
Mother nodded, her complexion pale and waxen, while sweat lingered on her upper lip. She had lived the history and knew the depths of Emrysa's fury. Gathering as much strength as she could muster, Mother rasped, clutching her chest and turning to Amara and Fae. “We must combine our powers. The blue flame has held us for too long and our powers are weak. Far too weak to take on the might of Emrysa.”
Amara nodded. “Agreed. Together, we may stand a chance.”
The three composed themselves, gearing up for the fight. But they staggered from the room, still weak from the dark magic’s grip.
“Wait.”
Fae turned. “What is it, Morganne?”
“Prepare yourselves, for the witch took things from me…” she turned away, emerald eyes glassy. “She took a piece of my heart… my blood… my…”
“Dear child!” Mother cried, her fearful voice full of regret and pain. She marched to her daughter, pulling her toward her own body. “The Taking Spell.” Mother spat a curse. “Damn that witch.” Mother then turned to Amara and Fae. “This will be a difficult task, for the witch Emrysa will have taken Morganne’s form. Her heart will beat with Morganne’s blood, and the only way to reverse the spell is indeed, to kill her. Do not let her pleas for help fool you, as difficult as it may be.”
Fae staggered backward. “The Killing Curse?” she clutched her heart, a small shake of her head like a whisper.
Amara nodded, folding her arms over her chest. “We have no choice, little sister, but to end this once and for all. You saw the visions through the blue flame as I did—felt the darkness of witch Emrysa’s heart. She will stop at nothing to conquer all.”
“Mother?” cried a panicked voice called from outside, a familiar voice. “Amara? Fae?”
The witches shared silent wide-eyed glances and looked through the window.
“The witch is here,” Mother said, closing her eyes. Pained.
“Morganne,” Amara began. “You have no magic, you must stay in here, safe, while we go outside and…” she lowered her voice to a hiss, “… kill the witch. I have no issues with killing her for what she’s done to you, Morganne, to us.” Her teeth gritted. Her dark eyes darker still.
“Where are you, oh please Goddess, say you are safe,” cried the voice from outside, louder. Closer.
“Damn that witch!” cried Mother watching the imposter run toward the cottage. She clasped her hands together, forming a glowing purple light, and held it aloft ready to cast. “Come, Amara, Fae. The element of surprise is on our side, she will not suspect us to know the truth of things.”
Fae clasped her hands together, silver light forming in her palms. Amara cast both arms out wide, palms facing up, clutching blackened fireballs, flickering and crackling with heat and anger.
“Morganne,” Amara demanded, the protective sister. “Get back, we want no more harm coming to you while we kill this cursed witch once and for all. Go on, go!” She ushered her eldest sister backward.
Mother grabbed hold of the door handle and yanked it open with an angry determination, allowing Amara and Fae to march past, magic poised in their hands for battle. As they did, Shadow scarpered in between Mother’s legs. The cat’s hackles up. Its mouth opened in a hiss.
On the threshold, Mother’s brows furrowed in a question and she shot a look at her returned daughter, who, in the safety of the shadows, tossed her red-golden hair over her shoulder. A sly smile broke across her face like a bloody slash. Mother paled. Eyes bulged.
This was not her daughter.
A flash of red and black light erupted outside.
“No!” Mother gasped.
But it was too late.
A macabre laugh erupted from Emrysa, dancing on the stale and smoky air as outside, the real Morganne took the force of her sisters’ magic attack, and screamed.
24
To The Death
A black light blinded Morganne, and she flung her arms upward and around herself to block its impact. The spell deflected, booming into the dusky sky.
“No, Amara!” she cried above the crackling of dispersing magic. “It’s me, your sister, Morganne.”
“She warned us, witch Emrysa,” Amara said, face of fury and thunder. Her arms a whirlwind around her body, she produced spell after spell after spell. Black sparks rained down on Morganne in relentless fury.
“Stop!” Morganne begged, weakening with her half-heart of single beat and sadness. She deflected each spell, her white-hot flame diffusing Amara’s black fire into crackling dust.
“My sister is no witch,” Morganne said, pacing forward, holding her gaze. She circled her hands around a fireball in her palms that grew and pulsed as she caressed her hands around it. “Fae,” she ordered, “join me.”
“Sisters, please,” Morganne pleaded, falling to her knees.
Side-by-side, the sisters gathered their magic, silver and black swirls blending into a magic orb of power, smoke dancing around them, and the air hushed into stunned silence.
Amara began the incantation, voice rising and falling like a forgotten song unsung in eons.
“We blend our spells from fire and hell
To fill the moon with red.
Her blood will spill, the world will still,
Until the witch is dead.”
Morganne crawled, her eyes darting between sisters and the empty space surrounding her. Where is Bedivere? He had gone around to the back of the cottage and had not returned. And where was Angelfire, for that matter? Where was anything that could save her? Anything that would let her sisters know they had been fooled.
Fae and Amara s
talked toward her, arms trembling with the gravitas of such a heavy and dark spell.
The Killing Spell.
As if carrying the weight if the world, the sisters raised their hands above their heads, their hair glistening under the sparkling silver and black that coalesced in their hands.
Fae hesitated. “Where’s Mother?” she cried over the thrum of magic.
“It doesn’t matter, I’ve weakened the witch and now we must take her,” Amara roared.
Morganne closed her eyes, fear weakening her stomach. But what could she do to change their minds? They made the choice and had believed witch Emrysa over her. From the corner of her eye, a flicker of a red cape. Her eyes darted, Bedivere, his dark orbs staring in disbelief and terror. And she remembered where the real magic resides.
Taking a deep breath, she rose, staring at her sisters both. She dropped her hands to her side—and smiled. Fae gasped, Morganne hesitated, and both turned to look at one another for half a breath, then back at their quarry. Morganne tapped her heart three times. Once for each sister to bind the triplets in love. And she cast them the older sister look that could belong to no-one else but the real Morganne. Amara’s eyes widened. Fae dropped her hands to her heart, her silver smoke and flames diminishing completely.
“Sister!” Amara gasped, then turned her head back toward the cottage.
Mother screamed, serenaded by the cackling laughter of the witch, a sound belonging to the depth of hell itself.
“Oh, get on with it!” Emrysa cried, still wearing Morganne’s form as she strode from the cottage in her crimson silks. With a nonchalant flick of her hand, an invisible force sent Fae crashing to the ground. She writhed, but Emrysa twisted her left hand as if turning a huge handle. Fae yelped, her wrists and ankles pinning her to the lush green grass beneath her.
With the other hand, Emrysa conjured her blue flame and smiled, cold and cruel. She threw her arm out to the middle sister, the blue light hissing through the twilight toward Amara.
Amara’s eyes widened, too shocked to deflect, too slow to attack.
“NO!” screamed Morganne, as the flame hurtled toward her sister.
A flash of red. This time, Bedivere’s cape as he flew at Amara, colliding into her body and slamming her to the floor with a thump. The blue flame exploded on impact upon his back. He lay still and solid over Amara’s body, pinning her to the ground with his weight.
“Oh, you heroic idiot!” Emrysa said, throwing now a mocking look of pity as she shook her head at the boy who stirred so much emotion in her half heart.
Emrysa dusted her hands, which had aged and withered with the extensive magic she had cast. Emrysa did not care, for nightfall was already upon them and she would lose her form, but not her revenge.
“That’s them dealt with, for now,” Emrysa said. Her eyes narrowed and darkened as she glared at Morganne. The emerald green draining to the color of death. “Your family’s death will come quickly, I assure you. But yours will not, your death will be a thing of endurance.”
Emrysa flicked her wrist, forming a flickering whip of blue frenzy, snapping through the air. It sliced toward Morganne, its tendrils snatching. Morganne crossed her forearms over her face, deflecting the blow. Then, with its power dissipated, Morganne grappled the prongs of the whip and sent it back with a double push of her hands. She gasped at the blazing heat across her sizzling palms.
Emrysa flicked Morganne’s deflective spell away with her arm, but staggered backwards with the force of it. She gritted her teeth, pressing forward, this time twirling her flame whip through the air above her head. It gathered momentum and morphed into a lasso, pulling the world’s wind into itself. Leaves whirled in its universe, wind howled, and Emrysa’s body morphed—peeling skin, wispy hair, but her power did not diminish. Her crimson dress tattered into rags, blackness seeping up the hem until it engulfed her completely. The world altered beneath Morganne’s feet, almost as if the globe itself stopped and turned in the opposite direction, following the line of the whip, following Emrysa’s spell.
Morganne gasped as the air from her lungs exploded outward to follow the spell, her wild red hair a tangle across her face, obscuring her view. She then realized she was standing in the very meadow where her magic failed her so many times. She cast those thoughts away, and glanced at her sisters, and Bedivere prostrate on the ground. Morganne tied her hair back in a scruffy ponytail, stood tall and, ripping off her cloak, she whispered secrets to the world.
And the world listened.
25
Sisters of Three
Bracing her hands to her side, fingers splayed toward the ground, Morganne screamed into the heavens, hauling the power of the universe back into her lungs. She raised her arms, commanded thunder, and roared as Emrysa’s flickering lasso severed the air toward her. Morganne stepped into it, banishing its power as she flung her arms outward from her heart. Again, Emrysa staggered back, more from shock this time, her face transforming into grim determination. Morganne’s features matched it, only where Emrysa’s face was an explosion of hatred and rage, Morganne’s was a mirror of love and hope. A powerful commodity, but was it powerful enough? Above the two battling witches, in the universe created within the circle of the lasso, storm clouds billowed into themselves, rolling and pulsing. Emrysa’s dark clouds coalesced into Morganne’s white clouds that fought back.
“I will not let you win,” Morganne screamed.
“There is no choice, you pathetic creature.” Emrysa laughed, though no smile broke her enraged features. From the space where Morganne’s half-heart beat in Emrysa’s chest, a blue fire surged and raged.
The next spell-war happened quicker than Morganne’s eyes could perceive, yet her body moved instinctively, working with nature to fight the darkness. From hand-to-hand, Emrysa cast out flames of crimson and emerald and indigo; left hand, right hand, left hand, right hand. Morganne deflected them all, her arms twisting like a tempest around her body. A block across her body sent indigo flames crackling to the ground which sizzled, the grass dying on impact. Morganne’s right arm flung upward, protecting her face and sending a green light shooting into a tree that lit in flames and smoldered. Then the crimson came for her, different to flames. Blood-laced smoke, all-encompassing and consuming, swirled around and over Morganne. Impossible to deflect.
“No!” whispered Morganne, her eyes as wide as fear herself. As it surrounded her, Emrysa’s voice echoed in her mind.
You called for me, Fireheart, our souls are as one.
“Get out!” screamed Morganne. “Get out of my mind.”
Emrysa cackled, full of humor and disdain.
Morganne breathed in all the love she could; from her sisters frozen and watching in awe. From Bedivere motionless on the ground. From Angelfire, who had saved her soul so many times before. And with that, the thrumming of his hooves, and more.
The horses raced to the witches, flashes of red, black, and white hurtling toward Emrysa who held a blood flame, the flame of death, in her clutches.
“With my fire of smoke and coal
I bind you now unto to my soul.”
Emrysa roared, flinging the flame at Morganne, too transfixed to notice the stampede careering toward her. Angelfire raced into the witch, knocking her to the floor, hooves pounding upon her body. Emrysa screamed, while Morganne turned to her sisters, and cast.
One: a flick of a hand to unpin Fae.
Two: a rise of both hands to remove Bedivere from Amara’s body.
Three: a nod to both as they rose to stand.
“Combine!” Morganne urged, but Amara shook her head.
“She is too strong. We need one more, we need one more element. We are only three.”
And Morganne knew her meaning immediately. Fae as soft and strong as the air and wind. Amara as grounded as the earth. Morganne herself, a Fireheart. Morganne shot a look, where is Mother? Emrysa staggered to her feet. Bedivere lay still on the ground. The horses circled amongst the storm and chaos.
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Me, use me as your fourth element of the world, said a voice older than time and softer than meadow hay. Her eyes flickered to Angelfire, the horse stood proud now—stamping hoof, his head and neck held high, wind blowing his mane of flames.
I am a being of nature, I hold all elements within.
Morganne felt her eyes swell with salty tears, and the horse seemed to nod, as if this was his doing. Her heart swelled like a raging ocean, binding her to water and fire both. She turned to Amara and saw the fire and passion in her features, bound both to earth and fire. And Fae, beautiful, delicate Fae, holding her own like a gentle spring breeze with the power to create hurricanes and raging storms. Between them, they held the power of the world.
Sisters of three once more.
26
Blood and Bone
The three sisters and Angelfire wrapped Emrysa in a circle, each sister and horse an element for the magic to surge. They closed in on the witch, whose arms swung around her body with such complicated hand gestures, her wrists moving in such intricate and impossible ways, showing her as an unnatural being. She morphed further as the sun set, and the moon showed its face on the horizon. Her tattered black rags dissolved into a darker midnight. Her scraggy hair thickening, the ends turning black and shiny, morphing into the feathers of ravens’ wings glinting in its own midnight. Her eyes glowed amber.
“You cannot take me!” she bellowed, incanting into her black thunderclouds. “No one can take me!”
Blood-colored smoke flowed around her, branching out at the sisters and Angelfire like gnarled claws. But the sisters stood their ground. With their arms held out wide beside them, their magic flowed through one and all, connecting them and Angelfire as one, and multiplying through each connection.
Fire Heart (Magic and Mage Series Book 2) Page 8
