I’m useless, helpless in this battle.
“Leave, Durmet!” I shout out, urging him to disappear from this plane and return to his hell, but the stubborn bastard won’t listen. Three of his legs are free and he rakes the ogre’s arm and chest, wherever his claws can reach, but his movements are becoming slower as the ogre readjusts its two-handed grip about his chest.
“Lightning,” Durmet howls at the top of his lungs. “Light—” His voice cut’s off in a gurgle as the ogre gives another squeeze and crushes my partner’s ribs and spine.
There’s a question on my lips as I sense movement from the corner of my eye. Trip limps toward the distracted ogre and, with both hands, drives his sword down through its booted foot.
“Lightning,” Trip says, falling back to collapse against the wall, one hand limply pointing at his sword.
The ogre bellows and ceases his death squeeze on Durmet, one hand going to the sword pinning his foot to the floor.
The wet floor.
Trip understood what Durmet had been trying to say. And now that I do too, I pray to the gods, pray to whatever devils Durmet prays to, that I’m not making the worst decision of my life. I raise my wand, take steady aim, then unleash a lightshot directly at Trip’s sword. The entire place explodes in light as lightning arcs through the room, drawn by the metal of the sword. It strikes with greediness, snapping and crackling the air, then travels down the blade and into the soaking wet ogre. Durmet is thrown across the room as the ogre stiffens, an agonized scream trapped in its mouth as its jaw locks in place. Convulsions rack the ogre even as his wet skin sizzles and begins to sear under the loosed lightning.
Lightning, which is not content to stay trapped.
Half the room is awash in puddles and the lightning spreads, arcing across every wet surface like a greedy fire on kerosene. I watch Trip go into convulsions just as a tendril hits me, crackling through me with enough force to nearly shatter my teeth.
Just as quick as I let it loose, it’s done. The lightning crackles once more, then sizzles out. I’m flat on my back again, rain pelting my face, ears ringing something fierce. The horrid smell of burnt flesh invades my senses and I’m afraid I’ve cooked myself. Slowly I raise my arms up before my eyes and find they’re still a healthy pink.
When I manage to get my feet under me, I take in the devastation I’ve wrought. The ogre is a steaming, charred piece of meat, still held fast to the floor by the sword that’s glowing red as a forge and bowing to the side. To my relief, Trip’s alive, his head lolling from side to side, his fingers twitching.
Coughing from my right draws my attention to the scribe. She’s down, curled tight in on herself on the floor. Further back, I spy Haurice peeking around the corner of the hallway, unhurt from what I can tell. After one glance my way he turns and flees, the sound of a door slamming down the hall declaring his cowardice.
“That was brazenly foolish.”
I curse and quickly pick up my wand.
Apparently Haurice wasn’t the only one who wasn’t standing in water when I let loose the lightshot. The arcane mage and the thug, unchallenged now that I’d inadvertently incapacitated the scribe, walk forward from the back end of the room. The mage pauses just before stepping onto a wet patch and waves his counterpart ahead.
The thug looks to the cooling sword stuck in the ogre’s foot and pointedly drops his knife to the floor. He then closes his eyes and takes a tentative step onto the wet floor. His eyes crack open when nothing happens. With a wicked grin, he retrieves his knife and walks around broken chairs and tables, stopping for a moment to slit the scribe’s throat on his way to me.
I lift my wand and point it his way.
He freezes, glancing down at the puddle that we both stand in. When I fail to fire, he looks back up at me and laughs. We both know I won’t fire my last lightshot. It would harm me as much as him, and likely kill Trip, who’s still down on the wet floor. He’s glaring at me, accusing me with his eyes—and I know it’s not because I laid him low with the lightshot.
Durmet saved my life by showing himself, and the way I reacted made it plain enough to all that the morph-imp and I have a personal relationship. Trip may not know the details of our partnership, but he now knows I conspire with a demon.
The thug stalks my way and I back up against the wall. On the other side of the room, the arcane mage makes his way toward Trip. This will end badly.
“The amethyst,” the mage says to me when he stops at Trip’s feet. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
Lightning and thunder drown out the room as the mage draws a razor-thin blade from his robe, drops to a squat, and unceremoniously drives the tip through Trip’s calf.
Trip screams and his arms lift inches from his sides but fall back down in helpless heaps.
“The amethyst,” the mage repeats.
“I told you—”
My words are cut off as Trip screams again, the mage driving the blade into his other leg. I push forward to rush to his help, but the thug meets me before I get a step in. He knocks aside my wand arm and drives the point of his knife into my side.
“It would be best if you told him what he wants to know,” the thug says with professional demeanor.
The piercing metal is cold, and though it’s barely broken the skin, the anticipatory pain of what’s to come is close to debilitating. I try sinking back into the wall, but the thug keeps the pressure on. His lips are parted in a manner that could be taken as a smile, or simply taken as the look of a man in the middle of completing a given task.
“I want the amethyst,” the mage says, still crouching at Trip’s feet. “If you don’t have it, you must know where it is.”
“Leave him out of this!” I hiss, trying to keep my body from moving. “Trip has nothing to do with this.”
“You brought him,” the mage counters, dangling the dagger from three fingers as he hovers the bloody point over Trip’s legs like a plumb bob. “I’ll carve him piece by piece until he truly is nothing unless you tell me what you know.”
“It was all just a scheme, a plan to—”
Trip screams.
“Stop!”
The thug’s knife slips deeper into my side as I reflexively push forward with a roar. Pain shoots through my body and the thug pins me to the wall by my throat with his forearm. I struggle to swallow.
From the corner of my eye I catch Durmet stirring. The small measure of relief at seeing him alive is overpowered by despair. I know he’s hurt badly because he’s reverted to his normal form, the one he naturally uses on this plane. One wing is splayed out beneath him, the other is draped over his small body like a limp leather burial shroud. I can’t see his eyes but I imagine they have lost much of the inner fire. Dark ichor crusts the corner of his mouth and the occasional bubble of blood escaping from his lips means he’s still fighting to breathe.
Never before have I felt so impotent, so utterly helpless as my closest friend flirts with death. And across the room, far from my reach, a man who once held that same title is being tortured at my expense.
This whole night has turned into the biggest blunder I’ve ever choreographed, and I don’t have the information the mage wants, don’t have anything to offer up to save Trip’s life. Hope fails me and my entire body sags.
“He’s not talking,” the thug says over his shoulder. There’s a hint of glee in his voice, as if he wants to draw this torture out.
“Well then,” the mage says. “The Arcanium does not play games, Knell. You, of all people, should know this.” He leans into Trip and with cold precision slips the dagger between two ribs, deep enough to puncture a lung. “Maybe if you had stayed with us, you wouldn’t be in this situation. Maybe you should have learned something before you were kicked out.”
Trip doesn’t reward the mage with a scream as the blade slides in. Either he’s found strength enough to fight back the only way he can or it’s something else entirely. Looking at Trip as h
e leans his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, I’m guessing that it has nothing to do with his will for fighting back.
It’s clear he’s done fighting.
I decide I’m not.
“You want to know what the Arcanium taught me?” I whisper. “Fine.”
The thug swivels his head back my way and I push forward. His eyes widen in confusion then narrow in pleasure as he responds by pushing the blade deeper into my side. It’s plain that this is what he’s wanted to do to me from the minute he saw me. It’s ironic how somewhere in the agonizing fire shooting through me, my insides keep insisting on letting me know that steel is, in fact, quite cold.
I reach up with my free hand to grab the thug’s wrist, wincing at the lance of pain invoked with the action, and look him in the eye. Something primal in the back of his mind triggers and his grin of accomplishment melts away as he meets my gaze, stares into my eyes, sees me for what I truly am. Where he had moments ago wanted nothing more than to bury his knife hilt-deep into my flesh, he now tries pulling away, but it’s too late. I’ve locked him tight against me.
The vampiric magic inside me tears at my very soul, and I drop my mental barriers, the ones Anderest taught me all those years ago in this very house. The telektric lamps closest to me start to sputter and the thug begins to do the same. The arcane curse inside me flares, drawing in and drinking whatever magic it can.
The mageworks crystals dim then crackle and fizzle as my curse draws every ounce of telektric energy from them. The magic stored within the crystals bleeds toward me and coalesces into a luminescent fog thrumming with hair-raising power, power which I then breathe in eagerly with my entire body. The raw magic fills me and I lift my head in blissful agony.
But the lamps are not enough to satiate its thirst. Through my hand, I pull from the thug his very essence. He opens his mouth to scream but it’s nothing more than a soulless whisper. His life is mine, his spark, his essence, his very soul my power.
For a split eternity, I am like a god, raw power coursing through my veins. I hold the thug still, draining all that I can, wanting more than he can offer, pulling even when there’s nothing left. Anderest Herchsten’s voice cuts through the call of the power, the power that is quickly becoming pain.
A fundamental law of magic is that no matter how well a vessel is constructed, it can only contain a finite amount of energy. Too much and the results could be immeasurably catastrophic.
Catastrophe now beckons. Immeasurably.
The blade slowly slips out of my side as I let go of the thug’s wrist. The body falls soullessly to the ground, leaving me standing alone, bleeding. The knife wound is but an afterthought compared to the raw power and pain pounding inside my shell of a body. Half the foyer has dropped into deathly shadows, the telektric lamps near me as lifeless as the body at my feet, their combined energy now entirely mine to do with as I please.
From somewhere deep within my soul, my curse screams in ecstatic joy for finally being let loose, and my throat goes raw as I willingly join in.
The arcane mage cowers behind Trip, mouth quivering in fear, bloodied dagger pointed my way. “What … what in the hells are you?” he asks after I drop my head and my screams.
I ignore him for now and shamble over to Durmet. My joints threaten to explode with every step but I manage to make it to him, where I squat down and place a hand on his shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have, boss.” His voice is more blood than breath.
“Nothing left to lose,” I say in a soothing tone.
I am my parents’ child, the mixing of their blood, of their principles and desires. Arcane father trained in the dark arts, holy mother trained to be a healer. Power stolen by way of one pours into Durmet by way of the other. I was never trained as a healer as my mother was, so I send a prayer her way, hoping whatever I’m doing is correct, that my stolen magic is enough to heal him. Warmth floods from me and into my partner. Durmet twitches and groans, his back arches, and his bones twist and turn as they reset under my hand. The sheen returns to his leathery wings and his body goes lax and I let go, falling back to my haunches and wiping sweat from my brow.
Relief floods me as Durmet struggles to his feet. He’s as rickety as a straw hut in a storm, but he’s alive. Gratitude flashes within the fire of his eyes but it winks out just as quickly as he glances across the room to the mage and Trip.
“You shouldn’t have done that, boss,” Durmet says, voice raw and weak. “Now they know what you are.”
I give him a chastising grin, warped by the pain wracking body. “You started it.”
Whatever he plans to say I stop short by standing up with halting movements.
“Thanks, partner,” I say, taking a moment to gather my equilibrium. “Now, I need you to go. I’m not too practiced at this healing thing and I’m afraid I can’t keep an eye on you and Trip at the same time.”
“I can’t leave you. Not now.” He tries to spread his wings but they look about as weak as a couple of sails on a windless ocean.
“Go,” I urge him. “Mend yourself back in your plane while I end this tonight.”
“But—”
“Go.”
I know it pains him to leave but he knows it’s for the best. “If you die on me,” he vows, “I’ll find whatever hell you’re dropped in and never let you live it down.”
“Deal.”
With that, my closest friend vacuums out of this plane and back to his.
I turn my attention on the mage, whose eyes are wide with shock. He blinks rapidly as realization replaces fear.
“You’re vampyric,” he exclaims with a shake of his head. “This is what Zwim has been hiding? This is why he’s been protecting you all these years? When word gets out, he’ll be burned at the stake.” He looks down at Trip and kicks his leg to get his attention. “Even the Arcanium holds people like your friend here in the lowest esteem. Abominations of the craft. And you, Honorable Captain of the Watch, have been keeping this from us? From the entire city?”
“I didn’t know,” Trip says, attempting to spit blood to the side. He’s lost so much strength that it results in a dribble down the corner of his mouth and onto his shirt. “He lied to me.” Then, looking over at me, he accuses even louder, “You lied to me.”
“I had to,” I tell him. “For your protection.”
“And look what that’s brought me.”
Too late to try to mend our friendship, I look at the mage. He curses me a raises a hand my way.
I aim my wand at him.
“You’re still at the disadvantage, Knell,” the mage points out. “Unless you’ve learned how to use arcane magic, then that power inside you is useless.” He looks me up and down and a mirthless smile spreads his lips. “Hells, you can’t even heal yourself, can you? And your wand? You’ve got what, one lightshot left?” He stamps a foot down in the growing puddle of water around himself and Trip. “You’d kill him just as likely as kill me.”
He’s right. All this power coursing through me and there’s no way I can make it across the room in time to save Trip. But something in the wand beckons to me, calls to the roaring magic inside me that is begging to be released. Anderest knew of what I was, what I am. He tried helping me through it, telling me that a curse can be a blessing if used justly. Like he’s calling to me from the grave through the wand, the very one he had intended for my hand, I answer that call with trust and let my curse free.
The wand sings with excited energy as my stolen magic flows into it.
I suck in a pained breath and level it at the arcane mage, who sensing my intent, drops down and holds his dagger poised over Trip’s heart.
“You’d kill us both then?” the mage says. “To keep your secret safe? To keep the amethyst for yourself? Perhaps you did learn something from Master Zwim.”
“Not Zwim,” I say, putting my faith in Anderest and changing my aim, centering the wand on Trip instead.
Pouring everything I have inside of me into
the wand, I hold my breath and let loose. No incant, no mental trigger for a crystal, simply my will, my desire unleashed.
The mage cries out and throws his hands up at the brilliant streak of violet energy that tears through the air and consumes Trip’s body. My vision is seared by the brilliance and before the magic is done crackling, I fall to my knees. I’ve barely enough strength left to keep myself from toppling over, and I pray that my faith in Anderest wasn’t unfounded.
My vision wavers when the magic finally dies down, and thank the gods that Trip is still breathing. Well, he’s coughing up lungfuls of blood, so I’ll consider that a good sign.
The mage slowly drops his hands and, seeing Trip not consumed in a fiery death, looks at me in bafflement. “I don’t know what you tried to do but—”
Trip’s hand shoots up and grips the mage by the wrist. Before he can make sense of what’s going on, Trip pulls him down forcefully while pulling himself up to his feet at the same time. With motion almost too quick for my tired eyes to process, Trip twists the mage’s wrist, grabs hold of the dagger, and plunges it straight into the bastard’s chest.
No lamenting cries, no curses or futile words of denial escape the mage’s mouth. Only a short sputter of blood, a weak attempt to grab at Trip’s arms and shoulders. Trip lets go of the dagger and the mage falls dead to the floor.
I breathe out. Durmet’s safe, Trip’s safe. All’s well.
My cheek hits the floor and water pours into my open mouth and nostrils. Death by drowning in an inch of water. Not the way I wanted to go, to be perfectly honest. I close my eyes.
“No you don’t.”
Then open them.
Trip gets his hands under me and hauls me to my feet. “You don’t get to die on me,” he says.
I attempt to laugh, but my stuck side has a differing view on that topic. “Don’t work for the city anymore, remember? You can’t order me around.”
The Amethyst Angle Page 26
