by Ella Summers
Moving in and out, the walls slammed into me from all sides with fists of thunder. I felt like I was being beaten down by an angry street mob. The barrage was relentless, the force of the telekinetic punches knocking me down.
My knees hit the floor. A wall loomed high above me, suspended in the air. Then it bellyflopped to the ground. I jumped out of the way, my body creaking in protest as I pushed it faster, narrowly avoiding the spinning walls. Black splotches danced in front of my eyes in a dizzying kaleidoscope.
I was lost. Even after months of training, this branch of magic was confounding, my resistance to it nonexistent. But thankfully I was quick. All that training with angels had paid off. I spotted an opening in the dancing wall parade, and I took it, slipping through. I could see the end of the course, the exit from my misery. I sprinted toward it.
I burst out of the course, dodging its final farewell kiss. Then I stood there and stared back at the moving, shifting obstacles. Catching my breath, I brushed my hand across my bruised skin. My body looked like a truck had driven over me—then backed up and rolled over me again for good measure. When something with telekinetic magic hit me, it really hurt, more so than any other branch of magic I’d faced so far. It was pure torture.
Get moving, Pandora. If you’re still standing, you can do it all again, Nero’s voice said in my head.
I chuckled, wondering if it was really his voice, if he was really still close enough to speak into my mind. Probably not. He must have been long gone by now. My mind was just conjuring what I needed to keep going. Harsh as Nero was in training, there was something remarkably comforting about hearing his voice chastise me for slacking off.
You’re right, I told Nero. It didn’t matter if it was really him.
Taking a deep, calming breath, I lowered into my knees and got ready to tackle the obstacle course again.
A crack of magic exploded in my face.
“Leda Pierce,” said a deep voice.
The blinding splotches of light slowly faded from my vision, and then I saw him: the Lord of the Legion of Angels, one of the seven ruling gods of heaven. He was also known as the God of War and the God of Earth’s Army. And he was standing right in front of me.
12
Magic and Counter Magic
“Ronan,” I said in surprise.
His dark obsidian eyes watched me closely. The last time I’d seen him, they’d been green. Gods seemed to change their features like they were jewelry. The black color matched his dark armor better.
“Thank you for the fashion advice.”
Oops. I wasn’t watching my thoughts. That was a bare necessity when conversing with gods.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Curiosity. Telekinesis is giving you trouble.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “The gods are keeping a close eye on you.”
Great. I felt like I was under a microscope. Despite what the Pilgrims would have us all believe, I knew the gods were not all-knowing and all-seeing, but they did have eyes and ears everywhere. The question was how often they were watching. I hoped they had better things to do than to keep me under constant observation, but it wouldn’t take 24/7 surveillance to realize I’d been having trouble with Psychic’s Spell. I’d been working on it for months, after all, and I didn’t feel any closer to cracking it.
“And also, Nyx told me,” Ronan added.
The First Angel had been watching me since I’d joined the Legion. She thought she could make an angel out of me, and my inability to advance further had thrown a monkey wrench into her well-laid plans.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Ronan said.
Before I could react, he hit me with a psychic blast that threw me clear across the gym. Even as I was falling, he followed up with a crushing telekinetic weight that smashed into me from above, slamming me into the floor. I felt two bones break in my ribcage, and black stars spun in front of my eyes.
The next thing I knew, I was on the floor. Ronan was crouched beside me, healing my wounds.
“You didn’t last long,” he commented, helping me to my feet.
Still seeing stars, I snapped back, “You’re a god. The fight wasn’t a fair one.”
“You’ve jumped into more than your fair share of unfair fights. That never seemed to stop you.”
“That’s different. You didn’t give me time to develop a strategy.”
His dark brows arched. “And what kind of strategy could you possibly devise that would work against a god?”
“I’d think of something. Like throwing sand in your eyes. Even gods have to see to fight. In fact, the better your senses, the more sensitive you are.”
Ronan laughed. Then he stepped back, lowering fluidly into a fighting pose. “Enough advance warning for you?”
I looked around the gym, searching for anything that might help me against a god. I came up short. My options were limited. And I was seriously underpowered.
So when he attacked, I just did my best to not fall on my ass this time. Rather than countering his telekinetic punches, I danced away, evading.
“Running away isn’t a viable strategy. I expected more from you,” he chided me.
He moved fast, his fists a blur. Too fast to follow. Too fast to avoid. He slipped past my defenses and pounded my head with a psychic punch, his fist powered with an extra dose of magic. I blacked out.
When I came to, Ronan was staring down at me. “I told you running away isn’t a viable strategy. I’m faster than you. My magic is faster than yours. If I were a hostile enemy, you would already be dead.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re the kind and cuddly God of War.”
He laughed again. “You need to commit to the fight,” he said as I stood. “You’re distracted.”
“I have a lot on my mind.”
I told him about my experience interrogating the two mercenaries today—and the high I’d felt from the power I held over them. Even as I prattled on, confessing my sins, I wondered why I was opening up to Ronan. He couldn’t possibly understand.
But he surprised me by saying, “Nyx struggled with the same thing.”
“Really?”
Nyx always seemed to know exactly what she was doing, like she was totally committed to every decision. She never wavered, and she never lost control.
“Nyx wasn’t always like that,” Ronan told me, picking up on my thoughts again. “She was raised by her mother’s family, humans. She only later came to train with the gods. It was a big change for her.”
That certainly explained Nyx’s more human qualities. She had a sort of duality—so human one moment, and the next, so inhuman, so like the gods.
“How did Nyx get past the indecision?” I asked Ronan.
“You have to believe in what you’re doing, that it’s for the best.”
“Even when what I know is right contradicts what the Legion wants?”
“This is about your sisters,” he said.
“Yes, but it’s not only about them. My duty to save lives, especially my sisters’ lives, will always outweigh catching the bad guy. I can catch him later. I can’t bring someone back to life once they’re dead, though.”
I knew I should have phrased this more carefully, especially when speaking to the Lord of the Legion himself. But Ronan seemed like the sort of person who appreciated candor.
“You certainly have a way of cutting straight to the core of the issue,” he stated, his face impassive.
“My way is not the Legion’s way, though,” I said. “We’re supposed to expect casualties, to eliminate threats by any means necessary. We’re told that collateral damage is unavoidable—even preferable to the damage a villain will continue to do if he remains free.”
“And what do you think?” Ronan asked me.
Dangerous grounds lay ahead. Ronan might seem approachable. Sometimes, he even seemed almost human. But I couldn’t ever forget that he was a god, and gods were not the same as humans. T
hey weren’t even the same as angels.
“Perhaps the Legion is right about that, that saving lives at the expense of capturing a criminal allows that criminal to do more damage for longer,” I allowed. “But I can’t just sacrifice innocents. Because where is the line? When does the coldness of a Legion soldier doing their duty cross the line into indifference for human lives? Or worse yet, devilish delight at ending lives?”
“You’re worried about your power lust.”
“How do you not get caught up in the magic of the moment? How do you not answer its seductive call when it’s flowing through you, burning like wildfire, screaming to be unleashed?” I asked desperately. “And you just want more and more. Everything else falls away and you become the monster.”
That was the way I had felt when I’d interrogated the mercenary. At the same time as I longed to feel that power burning through me, I never wanted to feel that way again.
“The answer is: you learn to control your power,” he said. “You’ve gained so much magic so fast. It’s not surprising that it’s overwhelming you. Control. It’s all about maintaining control.”
“You make it sound so easy,” I said drily.
“It’s not.”
Something about the way he said it, about the look in his eyes, made me wonder if he was speaking about himself too. Did even gods struggle with not getting caught up in all their power? Had I caught a rare peek into the soul of the impervious God of War?
“The magic consumes some people,” I said bluntly. “They change. They begin to see humans as nothing, as beasts who exist solely for their amusement. That’s what happened with Balin Davenport, the Deserter. I’ve read his report. He certainly has a colorful portfolio of accomplishments since leaving the Legion. He’s a cruel and twisted man. Did the Legion’s training cause him to be like that? Did his time here turn him into a monster?”
Ronan was quiet for a few heavy moments. “You aren’t making your life easy by asking these questions,” he finally said.
“I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but never of making my life easy,” I replied. “Or anyone else’s life for that matter.”
“Keep asking those hard questions, Leda. Just not too loudly,” Ronan added. “I’ve lost too many angels to this cruelty of which you spoke, this hardness that makes them arrogant, makes them believe that they can challenge the gods’ authority and hurt anyone they wish to. The angels are the protectors of humanity, the champions. They are given powers mere mortals do not possess so that they can protect the Earth and the humans who live there. Don’t make the same mistakes those fallen angels did.”
“I’m no angel,” I stated.
“Not yet perhaps, but Nyx is convinced you will be.”
“And you? What do you think?” I asked him.
“Time will tell.” He lowered into a fighting stance once more. He was giving me a warning before he attacked.
It didn’t help much. We went for another round of training. Or more like ass kicking.
I kept my distance from him, giving myself time to evade his magic blasts and psychic-powered fists. I even got in a punch. But when my fist slammed into his hard stomach, it only seemed to amuse him, not hurt him. I realized too late that he had drawn me into a trap.
Lightning fast, he snatched hold of my wrist, locking it inside his hand. Then he hit me point-blank with a telekinetic blast. It sent me flying across the room. This time I managed to catch myself on the training ropes hanging from the ceiling. He blasted me again, and I fell out of the ropes. I hit the ground with a thump that echoed through the room—and through my body.
“You still have zero telekinetic resistance,” he said.
I rubbed my aching head. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Do you usually go out so easily?”
I sighed. “Pretty much.”
“How long have Nero and Harker been training you for Psychic’s Spell?”
“Months.”
“And your telekinetic resistance is not improving?”
“Not really.” I tried to get up, but it hurt too much.
“Are you done napping?”
“Come a bit closer and you’ll find out,” I said, sarcasm biting my tongue.
“You’re very bold with the gods,” he commented. It was a statement, not a judgment.
“Nero isn’t here to make me behave myself.”
He actually looked amused. “Just don’t forget to be afraid of me. Of all of us.”
“Oh, I am afraid,” I assured him. “Scared out of my wits actually. But I’ll be damned if I let fear freeze me. That does no one any good.”
“You are very wise. The other gods don’t recognize that. Well, perhaps Valora does. The others underestimate you. They think you are a fragile human,” Ronan said. “But humanity is stronger than they think. And you aren’t really human, are you? You never were.”
I grabbed at his words, latching onto them. “What do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” he declared, looking at me closely. “A magical mystery. A conundrum.”
“Perhaps that’s why I can never gain the power of telekinesis.”
“Oh, you can gain it, I’m sure. You just have to go about it differently.”
I perked up. “So there’s a better way than the usual torture-with-magic-until-you-are-immune-to-it method?”
He laughed. “Oh, no. There’s no way around that, I’m afraid.”
I sighed. Of course there wasn’t.
“Someone with high magical potential often has particular strengths or weaknesses depending on the origin of his or her magic. That’s what we call your magical ancestry,” he told me. “Take your friend Drake, for example. He has shifters in his family history, so he’s strong. And he is predisposed to pick up that type of magic easily. Or consider your friend Ivy. She is good at calming people. That’s because her mother was a telepath, a ghost. And Ivy is obviously empathic. It’s the same branch of magic. That’s how our soldiers can possess hints of some kinds of magic before they reach the corresponding levels in the Legion.”
That didn’t explain my magic, though. My single pre-Legion magic was my vampire-mesmerizing hair, and I’d never heard of any supernatural with that power.
“When the gods came to Earth, we gave humanity gifts of magic,” Ronan continued. “Seven gods, seven gifts. My specialty is telekinesis, so that was my gift to humanity. I turned a few select humans into telekinetics. Humans with psychic power are my children, the progeny of my magical gift to humanity.”
“I am obviously not one of your ‘children’.”
“No, your magic lies elsewhere on the spectrum. Or more specifically, as I suspect, on the opposite end of the spectrum. And that’s your problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just as we all have strengths, we also have weaknesses,” he explained. “Your kind of magic—your ancestry magic—might be canceling out the telekinetic power you are trying to gain.”
“So what can I do?”
“There’s a potion that blocks magic.”
I nodded. I’d taken such a potion during Nero’s trials. It had stripped the magic from both of us, making us human for a time.
“You don’t need to take the complete magic blocker,” he told me. “There are potions selectively crafted to block out only one kind of magic, or several kinds, or even all magic except for one. Blocking out your major talents allows room for the minor ones to grow.”
Ronan pulled a vial of potion out of his jacket, holding it out to me. “This will silence all your magic—except the power of telekinesis. Your psychic potential is buried deep down inside of you, suffocated by all your other magic. The potion will allow it to grow so you can build up your telekinetic resistance. It will prime your magic. And in time, if you train hard enough, the Nectar will do the rest.”
I considered the vial of sparkling silver-blue liquid. Drinking the potion would make me mostly human again. It would make me weak. Ronan
wouldn’t just crush me in a fight; he would annihilate me.
His dark brows lifted. “Scared?”
I grabbed the vial. “Don’t bet on it.”
I popped the cap and gulped down the potion. A hint of chocolate chased the taste of peppermint across my tongue. The potion slid down my throat like a frozen river, like a breath of winter. My pulse slowed, my blood chilling. I shivered. I felt as though death had just kissed my shoulder.
The familiar fear took root inside of me, that same unwelcome feeling I’d had before Nero’s trials. Except it was so much worse now. This time, my magic had abandoned me all at once, vanishing between one moment and the next. Instinctively, I reached for my magic, grabbing, panicking, but it was gone. Just gone. I could feel only the imprint of its departed warmth, the hollow echo of my magic torturing me, mocking me with its absolute absence.
But there was something hiding in the magic void, a weak pulse blinking in the distance. It was a tiny spark of magic that I’d never felt before. I reached for it, pulling with savage desperation to have it, to hold it. It was weak and undeveloped, but it was magic.
Ronan hit me with a telekinetic blast. I pulled the weak flicker of my magic around me like a blanket, a thin layer of protection against the cold. His spell hit the blanket and fizzled out. I blinked in surprise. The little spark of magic pulsed in appreciation, growing a bit stronger.
This was the whisper, the hint, the precursor to Psychic’s Spell. After all these months, I could finally feel it. It was in there after all. It had just been too weak for me to find, buried as it was under all that other magic. Ronan was right. It had been hidden, blocked off from me.
But no longer.
Ronan punched me with his psychic magic again, his attack harder this time. My little spark of magic ate it up and grew a little stronger. It was only a weak trickle of magic, but at least it was magic. And it was all I had right now. I grabbed that magic by the horns, determined to make it mine.