by Joshua Roots
Pain overwhelmed me and I screamed.
The shadow came at me again, but this time I drew upon the power of the rift, deflecting the shot. The imprint howled with frustration, then shrieked in surprise when I threw myself at it.
I pounded it, unleashing my fury with the surgical precision I’d learned at Oak Hill. The presence shredded—battered again and again by my unrelenting assault. It backpedaled, desperate to escape, but I grabbed a tendril of its existence with my Skill, yanking it back to me.
Our spirits connected and I gasped in shock. No wonder the imprint was familiar. I’d touched this Skill before, melded with it almost a year ago...
When I’d driven Hexcalibur into The Conduit’s gut.
The sword had consumed him that day, eating his Skill and his flesh. But a shadow of his soul had remained, synced to the spell he’d used. It wasn’t an existence, just an echo of the man long dead.
But it remembered me. And it knew what I was willing to do to protect the people I cared about. Even the ones I didn’t know.
It recoiled, aware of my intentions through our connection.
I wouldn’t let go.
Holding the imprint in place, I drew on the power of the rift, charging my Skill until it threatened to break. Then I unleashed a wave of destruction that swept over the echo of The Conduit.
It made no sound, only thrashed as my psychic blast consumed it. Its corporeal form ignited, burned like deadwood under the fury of my Skill. With a final push, I stripped the tatters bare, scorching the imprint into oblivion.
As the remnants of the shadow faded for good, so too did the rift’s resistance to my control.
I gripped the edges, wrapping my Skill around them like an iron fist. Then I pulled them together, sealing the portal once and for all.
The icy winds and the howls of whatever beast Rancin was trying to summon vanished in an instant. All that remained of the rift was a soft pulse of fading blue light.
Time snapped back to normal.
My victory was short lived. A blast of wind slammed into me from behind. I was lifted off my feet and hurled into the altar.
“No!” Rancin shouted, throwing herself at the space where the rift had been seconds before. She clawed at the air, sobbing as her fingers felt for the edges that no longer existed.
“He’s gone,” she shrieked, turning on me. “You took my son from me again!”
I gasped, stunned at her comment. The Conduit? Her son?
The Elder struck with another Air Spell before I could fully process the news. I twisted, grabbed the force with my Skill, and funneled it around me. Tile and plaster were ripped from the floor and walls, shattering into dust behind me.
The old woman raised her arms, but I drove my blade into the marble floor in front of me before she could complete the spell. Power flowed from me as I gripped the marble and swiped my sword skyward.
The flooring exploded into thousands of large, deadly chunks that raced toward Rancin.
The Elder snarled, lowering into a defensive crouch and leaning into the onslaught. Several projectiles reached her before she threw up a new barrier, one of which clipped her shoulder. There was a loud pop and the woman cursed—but she seemed to feed off the pain, dumping more power into her barrier. The rest of my marble missiles crashed into it and were reduced to nothing more than dust. I hurled another barrage, then another.
Exhaustion scratched at the edges of my Skill. Despite the overload of energy provided by the rift, I could feel my stamina wavering. The stonework grew heavier with each blast of my spell. Eventually, shards of old tile bounced harmlessly against her protective barrier like insects against a windowpane.
Running low on juice, I reached for my gun. As it cleared the holster, a flash of light gleamed between us. Fire erupted in my right leg. I screamed in agony, dropping the Glock and doubling over.
A small knife was buried to the hilt in my quadriceps.
The ornate handle glinted in the overhead light and, like a fool, I yanked it from my body before common sense could stop me. Blood poured from the wound like a sieve, soaking my pants beneath my robes, and running down my leg into my shoes. I slapped my hand against the injury and began a basic Healing Spell.
The skin slowly knitted together, but was hampered by my weariness and my lack of focus due to the pain.
Thankfully, not all my senses were dulled—I was aware of the air before me suddenly growing heavier. Without thinking, I removed my hand from the wound and slapped my palms together in front of me.
The air rushed together in the shape of a wedge a heartbeat before a shockwave of wind struck it.
Rancin, however, was more than a match for my Skill and she knew it. The first blast ricocheted around me, but the second pushed the tip of my wedge inward with little effort.
My barrier cracked, then collapsed.
I reached for the stonework around me, trying desperately to block the blitzkrieg of magic, but her Air Spell blasted through my defenses. I was thrown like a rag doll against the altar once more. The impact knocked the air out of me and I slid to the ground, gulping for breath. Blood pumped from the gash in my thigh.
Rancin limped slowly toward me, one arm holding her bloody leg, the other dragging her staff.
“For months I’ve been forced to tolerate you,” she seethed. “Act like I didn’t hate the man who’d murdered my son. But the Council had eyes on you, preventing me from the vengeance you deserved. So I waited, suffering your insolence. Your arrogance. So I promoted you, praying you’d get yourself killed on the rift repair team. Yet somehow you survived.”
She winced as she walked up the podium stairs, then stopped and glared at me.
“You sad, pathetic excuse for a Warlock,” she said, her voice tinged with disgust. “Inexperienced, cocky and weak. You’re just a puppet for the Council, dancing before the media, being paraded as a hero. You, who are nothing more than walking proof of what’s wrong with a joint society.
“Look at your pedigree, Marcus,” she hissed. “Your parents are gods among mortals, yet you are barely able to get by. And that’s just because you walked away from our traditions. Yet even with all your training, you’re still not back to full strength. Plain and simple, you’re a broken commodity.
“But it’s not just you,” she continued. “It’s the whole damn system. We created the treaty with the Normals to preserve the longevity of our people. At the time, joining our two societies seemed the logical path to secure a future where the Skilled would thrive, but it’s proven to be a greater threat than any war ever could. And it’s all my fault.”
Tears welled in her eyes and her voice caught.
“I spearheaded the treaty, knowing full well that melding our societies was risky. What if it was all a ruse? What if the Normals still burned with the hate that I knew as a child? You don’t know what it was like growing up in a world where you lived in fear of being butchered in your sleep simply because you were different.”
I gritted my teeth, fighting against the pain in my leg.
“But that didn’t happen. Normal society welcomed us with open arms after thousands of years of persecution. It was glorious and, for the first time in a millennia, we were at peace. Ironically, that was our greatest undoing. As you saw.”
“The birthing charts,” I said, as realization dawned on me.
“The signs were there early on,” she said in disgust. “But we didn’t see them. At first, no one was bothered that there were fewer applicants for training, but as the years progressed, it became apparent that something was amiss. So I began researching. Only now, a full generation after melding our societies, the true extent of the danger is apparent. Children of mixed-world birth lack Skill or are too weak to be effectively trained. And their children, the ones being born now, are nothing but Normals.”
My head was beginning to swim. “You think we’re breeding ourselves out of existence.”
Rancin offered a sad grin. “Perhaps you’re smart
er than I thought. Yes. The more integrated our societies become, the more diluted our stock. You saw firsthand what happened with Alistair Monroe and he’s only one of hundreds coming up through our ranks. What happens in another twenty years? Or another?” She shook her head. “Shannon thought he could fix everything by letting war sort the wheat from the chaff. But you killed him before that happened. Only in the wake of his death did I realize that while peace may be the slow death of our people, war isn’t the answer. Our only hope of survival is isolation.”
“You can’t put the genie back in the bottle, Rancin,” I said, battling the gray that was seeping into my vision. “Our societies have grown together too much for you to drive a wedge between them now.”
The fire returned to her eyes. “It will happen. You may have destroyed the last remnants of my son when you closed this rift, but I have had decades of practice opening them. I will find more creatures willing to bind themselves to me and use them to sunder the peace. It’ll be even easier now you are no longer capable of stopping me.”
I tried to get up, but my head was heavy and my limbs slow to respond.
She knelt beside me. “Silly boy. You are not worthy of the Skill you so blatantly disrespect.”
She pressed her index finger against my forehead. I raised an arm to deflect her, but she simply swatted it away.
“See?” She smothered my powers with hers like a thick blanket. “A true Warlock would be able to defend himself against a simple spell like this. Yet here you are, nothing more than a puppet with his strings cut. Dying. Some of us learn from our mistakes, Marcus. Some of us try to make the world a better place because of it.
“But not you. You just float along, playing with your powers like a toy, hurting people with your carelessness. No one held you accountable because they fear your father. But he’s not here to protect you, is he? No, now it’s time to pay your dues.”
Her rage washed over me as heat ripped into my head.
“You have cost me everything,” she hissed. “I will sleep soundly knowing my son is finally avenged.”
Searing pain exploded inside my skull and I felt—rather that heard—myself scream.
I flailed as her spell threatened to boil my brain. Tears leaked down my face and my throat went hoarse from my shrieking. Rancin held me steady, staring dispassionately at me.
I prayed for death.
The end never came.
Rancin was suddenly yanked backward—her eyes widened in surprise.
The pain vanished, replaced instead by a dull ache across my entire body. The old woman landed awkwardly on her left hip. Behind her, my warrior woman glowed white-hot with elemental fury.
“Keep your hands off my boyfriend, you traitorous bitch!” Quinn yelled, and hurled Rancin across the floor with another Air Spell. The Elder tumbled several times before righting herself. The old woman’s left arm hung limp.
“That was unwise, Ms. Fawkes,” Rancin seethed. “Your father may have been difficult to deal with, but you lack both his raw talent and his years of training to deal with me.”
“Maybe so,” Quinn said, “but I’m stacking the deck in my favor.”
Behind her, Elders Devon and Bristol, along with my mother, stormed into the room. Rancin snarled, swiping her hand in the direction of the small party. Electricity flew from the lights overhead, targeting each person.
Barriers deflected or absorbed the bolts in showers of sparks.
Where’s Dad? I wondered.
Bristol and my mother darted to one side, hurling Air Spells.
Rancin ducked, returning fire with more electricity.
Mom deflected a bolt with her katana, but Bristol was a hair too slow. A tendril of energy clipped her, throwing her into the far wall. She slumped to the ground unconscious and Mom immediately dove to protect the Elder from another electrical assault.
Quinn spun, dodging arcs of lightning while Devon raised his staff and drove it into the floor. Tile and stone flew upward, forming a wall. Bolts slammed ineffectively into the makeshift barrier.
Protected, Devon aimed his staff at the altar, then swiped it in Rancin’s direction. The heavy, marble structure flew like a rocket, but Rancin intercepted it with her own staff, shattering it into a million pieces.
As the battle raged, I struggled to maintain consciousness. My Skill drained, there was little I could do except watch in fascination. These were the elite of our society—even Quinn.
My warrior woman parried and danced, holding her own against the wrath of an Elder.
Still Rancin’s ferocity was startling.
Even injured, she was holding off four of the most powerful practitioners. Every time they moved in, Rancin would drive them back with a torrent of elemental fury. The old woman even seemed to be picking up steam. She sucked electricity from every location, hurled Air Spells like mini-tornados and cooked marble with Fire Spells.
The more I watched, the more I realized Rancin’s ire seemed completely focused on Quinn. She’d bat away a spell from Mom or Devon, then unleash hell at my girl. Quinn leaped and twirled, dealing with each attack, which seemed only to frustrate the old woman.
Rancin cursed, then fired a volley of lightning. Quinn raised her sword and parried the bolts into the ground behind her. The stone exploded, showering the room with chips of old rock. Mom swept the majority of the projectiles aside with an Air Spell while Devon turned the remainder into ash with a fire.
As Rancin continued to pour her fury into her spell, Quinn danced like a ballerina. The old woman sneered, but as she launched a new assault, Quinn drove her sword into the ground. Quinn reached for the incoming electricity, directing it into her sword. The blade changed from blue to white as the lightning funneled into the hilt, but didn’t follow Quinn as she spun around the sword and charged Rancin.
The Elder tried to draw the energy back toward her, but Quinn’s sword—her mini-lightning rod—held onto it.
And, by proxy, it held Rancin as well.
Quinn stepped inside her reach, grabbed the old woman’s wrist, and twisted, locking Rancin’s arm. Then she drove her palm through the woman’s elbow, snapping the joint like a chicken leg.
Rancin screamed. The sound echoed off the walls, chilling me to the core.
Quinn, however, was unfazed. Maintaining her grip on Rancin, she drew her knife, jerked the Elder forward, and drove the blade through Rancin’s chest above the left breast.
The old woman gasped in surprise.
“Goodbye, Linda,” Quinn said, but as she released her grip on the old woman, the Elder threw her backward with an Air Spell.
Quinn slid along the polished floor, skidding to a halt near her sword.
Rancin sank to her knees, her face pale. She reached out, gripped the pent-up fury that had been collecting in Quinn’s blade with her Skill, and simply released it.
There was a blinding flash as the lightning unleashed itself, striking the ground and walls all around us. Quinn scrambled away, shaping her Skill to block the electricity, but a bolt caught her before she’d completed the spell.
She fell to the ground, her whole body convulsing from the electricity coursing through her.
The sight of her writhing in agony was enough to pump renewed, albeit limited, energy into my veins. I rolled onto my hands and knees, reaching for my pistol, but it and my sword had been lost somewhere during the fight. Instead, I grasped the air around me, struggling to shape a spell.
When the element didn’t respond, I began dragging myself to Quinn.
Like sharks smelling blood in the water, Mom and Devon swooped in on Rancin as her bubble of power began to falter. Rancin fired volley after volley of Air Spells, but the pair sliced through them with practiced ease.
Mom pounded on Rancin’s defenses, hammering her until the barrier cracked.
Devon took two huge leaps, then smashed the large end of his staff against the side of Rancin’s head.
The old woman was flung toward me, landing awkwardly
.
She moaned, struggling to rise, but Devon was on her.
“Why?” he demanded.
Blood poured from her face and chest. “You know,” she coughed. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”
In one motion, Devon jerked the knife out of Rancin’s chest and drove it into her throat. The old woman collapsed and remained still.
He glared at her, then seemed to realize my presence. We made eye contact and, for a heartbeat, there was fear in his eyes. What does he know? I wondered.
Then Quinn convulsed, jerking my attention away from him.
She was pale, bucking as the invisible force continued to bounce around inside her. I tried to capture and remove the stray voltage, but like it had with her sword, it slowly died on its own before I could grab it.
Quinn relaxed, released a sigh, then went still in my arms.
The world around me blurred. Her glassy eyes stared at the ceiling above us as I used what little Skill I had left in me to try and jump-start her heart. When the Healing Spell failed, I pressed my mouth to hers, forcing air into her lungs.
My Skill sensed her powers begin to slowly cool down, despite my efforts.
I was vaguely aware of distant voices as I continued to perform CPR. I shoved Devon off when he grabbed me, but my mother successfully pulled me away from Quinn’s body.
She wrapped her powerful arms around me, murmuring in my ear as the Elder knelt by my girl. More people arrived, blurry images in robes, but they didn’t register on my radar.
All I saw or cared about was the pretty, slack face of Quinn Fawkes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Batting Clean Up
It took nearly a week to clean up the mess from the battle. Arbent and his team cordoned off both the National Cathedral and Oak Hill Cemetery while they investigated Rancin’s ability to open the rifts. Most of R&D was placed on administrative leave pending a full investigation, but the surviving Elders quickly realized that Rancin had successfully manipulated enough information that no one would ever know the full story.