Magic Unchained

by Jessica Andersen

  He didn’t question how he could hear his mother’s voice without the eccentrics; he knew only that he could.

  The cave mouth gaped wide and the once muddy ground surrounding it was cracked and crazed. The flash-flood river was gone, the earth parched, and his boots rang on the hard surface as he called a shield spell and strode through. His brain buzzed, filled with whispered echoes in his mother’s voice and the pull of the stones. And though there was a part of him that raged against both, saying that this was Myrinne—he loved her, trusted her—those thoughts were drowned out by the others that said she had betrayed him.

  Inside the cave was cool, damp, and shadowed, and felt crowded with the animals that danced on the walls and ceiling.

  Myrinne was at the altar, slim and lithe in jeans and a cropped tee that flirted with her tattoo. Her head came up at his entrance; her mouth went round with surprise and horror. And he felt nothing but murderous rage.

  The scents of vanilla, patchouli, and lavender filled the air, and the eccentrics lay in a round dish beneath a layer of fragrant oil that flamed blue, then red as his magic filled the space. He had dismissed her Wiccan stuff as useless, thinking it was her way to feel like part of the team. He’d been wrong, though. There was power here. Betrayal.

  “Rabbit.” She held up both hands. “Wait. I’m just—”

  “Don’t!” he thundered. “No more lies!” There was a wrenching, tearing pain in his chest, and he broke, shattering from the guy he had been with her into a new man, one who could see what she had done to him, all the ways she had manipulated him.

  “I’m not lying. I—” She screamed as the eccentrics erupted from the oil in twin burning sprays and flew to land in his outstretched palm, where they seared into his skin without pain.

  Stuffing them into the pocket of his jeans, ignoring the way his black Windbreaker gaped open across his bare chest, he advanced on her. “Were you going to destroy them right away, or were you going to summon her first? What were you going to do to her? Damn it, tell me!”

  Tears streaked her face. “I wasn’t going to hurt anybody. I was just trying to help. After what you said about the stones, I got this idea—”

  “Don’t.” The word cracked like a whip. “Don’t pretend this was for me. It’s always been for you, hasn’t it?”

  “No.” Her lips shaped the word but almost no sound came out. Her eyes were wounds, her mouth a slash.

  “You’ve fooled me, manipulated me all these years, but now I’m seeing things clearly.” He was at the edge of the island, where baked mud went to shifting sand. A drip-drip made him look down. His hands were bleeding from twin slashes across his palms, though he didn’t remember making the sacrifice. He was filled with equinox power, though, overflowing with it. More, beneath the red-gold sparkle there was a faint rattlesnake hiss. A clatter. Exhilaration pounded through him. It was the first time he’d heard the dark magic’s song since Iago took away his connection to that half of himself.

  His lips pulled back in a feral snarl. “This was what you wanted, right? You wanted me to use the dark magic again. But why? Who are you working for?” He leaned over her and got in her face to yell, “Damn it, what are you trying to do to me?”

  “I’m not doing anything! Snap out of it, Rabbit, please! This isn’t you.” Tears ran down her cheeks in fat, glistening drops. She was shaking, gripping the edge of the altar as if to hold herself up.

  The fog was thick now at the edges of his mind, his vision tunneled to her face above the burning oil. He slapped the pan aside, splashing scented oil, and smiled as she screamed and backpedaled. Deep down inside him, a weak, puny kid heaved, puked, and beat at the walls of his mind, screaming, What the fuck are you doing? But that kid was a pussy who’d never done anything right, and was easy to ignore when another voice, so much louder, said, Yes, Rabbie. My Rabbie. You are the crossover. Do what needs to be done.

  The dark magic rattled again, filling his veins with flames and terrible power.

  Sobbing now, Myrinne cried, “Call for help, Rabbit. You need to call the others. Please. I’m begging you.”

  “They can’t know until it’s over,” he said, hearing another voice beneath his own.

  Her eyes went wide, stricken, terrified, as she understood. “No.” Again, it was more the shape of the word than the word itself, and then, louder: “No!”

  She spun and bolted. He didn’t even move, just flicked a finger and sent flames searing around her in a bright, crackling cage of fire. She screamed and stumbled to a halt. “Rabbit, no.” She collapsed to the ground sobbing, shouting through her hands, “I was only trying to help. Please!”

  He barely heard her over the dark magic, which thrummed through him, and coiled at the black quatrefoil mark on his arm. Nearby above the altar, the fog swirled, gathered, and began to glow in the shape of a doorway. He stared up at the spot and a smile split his face.

  We’re waiting. Make the sacrifice and call us through.

  She said “we”! His blood leaped at the promise of seeing his twin, his other half.

  “Yes, Mama.” He whispered the words, afraid that if he said them too loudly the dream would disappear. This wasn’t a nightmare, after all. It was the promise of a new future.

  At his command, the fiery cage moved toward the gathering gray cloud, forcing Myrinne to move with it. She staggered, went down, and cried out when the lattice burned her. Her hair was soaked with sweat, her eyes blank.

  The pussy inside him wept and railed, but his mage self—his better, stronger self—extinguished the flames and then reached for her with his blood-streaked hands. He got her by the hair and forced her onto her knees.

  Her eyes focused, went wet with grief. “Rabbit, please.”

  He set the knife to her jugular. “My name is Rabbie.”

  “No,” she whispered, “you’re Rabbit. My love. My one and only.” She reached for the knife, grabbed the blade, and yanked her palm along it, and then clutched his free hand, matching them blood-to-blood.

  The connection clicked into place instantly, traveling along neuronal pathways that had been burned into place by two years together and the love—or the illusion of it—they had shared. He fought to yank free, to shake her off. “Get the fuck—”

  Then she dropped her mental shields. And for the first time, she let him all the way into her mind.

  Vertigo spun around him as he plunged into the whirlwind without preparation. Then he was seeing what she saw, feeling what she felt, and knowing what she knew.

  Terror, grief, horror, betrayal. The emotions slammed through him as he looked up at his own face, nearly unrecognizable in its fury. But beneath the fear there was Myrinne, opening herself to him. He caught memory flashes of the things that had made her the person she was: the abuse she’d endured at her foster mother’s hands, so much grimmer than he had ever suspected, kindling the drive to be more than herself—better and stronger, so nobody could hurt her ever again. He saw himself—as rescuer, lover, antagonist, friend, and, finally, betrayer and murderer, or close to it—and he felt the emotions of each.

  But what he didn’t sense was duplicity.

  She was pushy and ambitious, but she wasn’t a spy, a traitor, or a saboteur. She was, quite simply, Myrinne. The rest of it was lies.

  “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 fo
g 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…”

  “Positive. Go on. Drop that off in the hall and then you’re off the clock until ’port time.”

  Finally appeased—Sven hoped—Ritchie headed toward the mansion, casting a last look over his shoulder. When he was out of sight, Sven closed his eyes, summoned magic that felt far too sluggish for an equinox, and cast a shield around him and Mac.

  It failed.

  “Fuck me.” A big-ass pit opened up in his gut. He had known he was risking a backfire by staying put longer than his magic wanted him to, but he had counted on his warrior’s talent to keep things working until after the battle. And now… Shit. He didn’t know what the right answer was going to be. All he knew was that he couldn’t help lead the winikin into battle without his damn magic.

  Tapping his armband for a private channel, he hit up Cara’s identifier. When she answered, he said, “Hey, where are you? I need a minute.”

  “I’m in my suite. Everything okay?”

  “Nothing we can’t deal with.” He hoped. He honestly didn’t know what he was going
to say or what he hoped to get out of talking with her, only that he needed to see her, touch her. “I’ll be there in—”

  A strident beep-beep-beep cut him off, coming from his armband, with deeper echoes sounding elsewhere throughout the compound, and then the emergency channel went live, and JT’s voice snapped, “We need serious help in the main mansion. Rabbit’s barricaded himself into the altar room with Myrinne’s body and the screaming skull. He says he’s going to use it to resurrect her!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Just do your thing; that’s all I’m asking,” Rabbit said to the screaming skull’s hollow-eyed, skeletal face. Desperation hammered at him, making his hands shake as he clasped the skull between his and Myrinne’s cut palms and whispered, “Pasaj och.”

  He felt the burn of the barrier connection and saw the red-gold of Nightkeeper power, but other than that… nothing.

  Sunlight poured through the glass-and-steel roof of the circular chamber at the center of the mansion, creating patches of light and dark on the carved stone walls. The ashes from countless Nightkeeper funerals had been used in the mortar and set beneath the chac-mool altar, skewing the magic heavily toward the light. Which was why he’d brought her here—he needed all the good-guy vibes he could get.

  “Come on, come on!” he chanted. There had to be a way to invoke the resurrection spell without being down at the First Father’s cave, had to be. But how? He had shields on all the doors, but soon he would be surrounded, outnumbered. When that happened… Shit, he needed to think, think!

  He had placed her on the altar, curled on her side with her hands beneath her cheek as if sleeping. Only she wasn’t. He couldn’t find a pulse, couldn’t sense her inside her own skull anymore. If she wasn’t already gone, she was so very close.

  His heart pounded a sick rhythm in his chest. Sweating, shivering, he leaned over her. “Come on, sweetheart; stay with me. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll make it up to you somehow; I promise. Just stay with me.” He tried the spell again. “Come on, come on!”