Chapter Twenty-One
Oakley
Another man, one I recognized not only from sight but from the oily feel of his magic, stepped out from behind a van, farther away than the others but far more dangerous. A blood witch.
Master Calarel Kelhorn.
He wasn’t even wearing a mask, as if he knew just the sight of him would do me harm.
Flashes of memories—of nightmares—threatened to overwhelm me as the familiar spell held me immobile. Growing up, this was a spell the masters used on me often, a spell the blood witches loved to use so I couldn’t fight back.
Although, some of them enjoyed it when I fought back—like Master Kelhorn.
I shook that off, not wanting to give in to the memories, not wanting to let this blood witch have power over me the way he used to.
This spell, this vulnerability, had been one of my worst fears since I escaped that fucking cult.
And I’d prepared for it the best way I could.
Tan had helped.
The spell kept my limbs and torso from moving, but it’d never sealed my lips shut or stopped me from moving my head or tongue—most of them had enjoyed hearing my screams.
Swallowing thickly, I moved my tongue until my tongue piercing was between my teeth, and I bit down on the small gem on the end.
People thought I loved jewelry and pretty things, that I was a little vain, and while I did enjoy them, that wasn’t why I always wore so many pieces.
This was why.
Each and every piece of jewelry I had, every piercing, every bracelet, every necklace, all of them held magic.
Because I would never become a victim of a blood witch again.
Another surge of magic, this one welcomed, rushed over me. Tan’s essence soothed me and gave me the courage to fight back as his spell broke the hold the blood witch had on me.
The second I could move again, I reached into the front seat to grab my and Roman’s swords. We took them everywhere with us, but we hadn’t wanted to scare people in the mall, so we’d left them in the car.
Next time, we’d have to risk scaring people, I guessed.
We couldn’t be caught off guard like this ever again.
Master Calarel Kelhorn was shocked when I climbed out of the car.
Good. Take that, asshole. I have more tricks up my sleeve than you can imagine.
Roman was still fighting the machete guy and doing a valiant job of it with only his shifted claws, somehow avoiding being chopped up by the giant knife.
“Rome!” I yelled and threw his sword to him without waiting for him to respond. I knew he’d see it coming.
As suspected, he caught it without issue, unsheathed it, and parried the next blow in a move so smooth it looked choreographed.
That cult member wouldn’t last more than three seconds now that Roman was armed.
He could’ve simply shifted and stomped on the guy, but again, we were surrounded by civilians, and neither of us wanted anyone else getting hurt.
The closest cultist already had his sword out, so I unsheathed mine and went into attack mode. No way was I letting anything happen to Roman or any of the bystanders, so I needed to take these assholes down. Now.
With a roar, I lunged for the cultist, knocking his sword to the side and punching him in the kidney. The man grunted but came at me with another swing of the sword. I ducked, making his swing go high so I could slice at his other side.
He was wearing dragonscale armor, including a bevor—a piece of armor that protects the neck, throat, and chin. It was unfortunate that I couldn’t simply behead the guy.
His armor was strong as hell, but my sword was also made of dragonscale, and I had one thing these people didn’t—a witch, a good witch, stepfather who’d done extensive spell work on my, Rome, and Dad’s swords and armor.
I couldn’t go through this cultist’s armor easily, nothing could, but I would get through after a few swipes.
And that was something these assholes wouldn’t expect.
So I let the man come at me again, and I swiped the same spot, weakening his armor there. He probably didn’t even notice that something was wrong yet.
Another cultist jumped into the fray, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roman fighting off two. The blood witch and the last man hadn’t jumped in yet, but I knew they would any second. We were already outnumbered, and these guys knew how to fight.
I should know since they trained me.
This wasn’t going to be easy, and I needed to hurry.
With one hand, I parried the newcomer’s strike and reached into my pocket for a vial. I had so many different things on me that I didn’t even care what I grabbed. Anything would work to keep one guy back for even a few seconds.
I threw the vial at the cultist’s feet and turned with my sword arm up, catching the first guy’s sword on mine. I gave it a push with a roar, and the man stumbled back a few steps. He was strong for a human, probably from a strength spell, but he was nothing in the face of a pissed-off dragon.
The vial had contained a gas that surrounded the cultist, quick as a flash, and hardened into a sort of silvery orb, like a cocoon. He banged on the sides, but they were hard and wouldn’t be broken until I broke it since it’d been my tonic.
Perfect. One was out of commission, and we could question him later.
I concentrated on the first attacker, stepping in close enough to punch him in the same kidney again. That gave me a chance to swipe at his other side with my sword, and this time, I broke through the armor. Thank you, Tan’s magic.
He hissed and yelled out angrily as he swung his sword yet again.
But I was faster.
I swiped his side, opening up his skin and muscle, blood spurting everywhere. With him howling in pain, I used his distraction to go for his head. I couldn’t get to his neck armor, but his head wasn’t covered the same way.
This was gonna be so gross, but it was the best I could do when there were other threats around us.
My dragonscale sword cut through the top of his head with a sickening squelch.
I didn’t get the chance to breathe because the last fighter—other than the actual blood witch—attacked before the first man’s body fell to the ground.
Lifting my arm, I did a partial shift, letting my scales grow over the skin of my arm in the blink of an eye, and I caught the new cultist’s sword with my scales.
The strike reverberated down my arm, pain spiking through me, but it was easily forgotten when I was busy fighting the newcomer off, parrying and striking, swords smacking loudly, grunts and growls filling the air as the two of us really went at it.
He was a better fighter than the last guy, and after what felt like ten minutes but was probably only thirty seconds, I backed up two steps to give myself room so I didn’t trip over the dead body on the ground.
I couldn’t go too far because Roman had killed one of his attackers, so there was a body behind me too.
That was okay. I was good at combat. It came almost as naturally as breathing since I’d been training since before I could remember. My mother always told me I was swinging a sword before I could walk.
Never thought giving a baby a sword was a good idea, but then again, it was my mother, and she never gave a shit whether I was hurt or not. Half the time, she was the one hurting me.
But this guy had clearly grown up and trained in the cult too, and he wasn’t human. He was… shit, he was a blood witch too. Fuck me.
The second I had the thought, I watched him slice his palm—not wearing gloves like the others should’ve clued me into what he was.
I rushed him, trying to stop him, but he quickly drew a rune on his hand in his own blood and whispered a spell before I could reach him. Motherfucker.
A red mist came flying out of the man’s outstretched hand, aiming right for me. It wrapped around my neck and squeezed. I reached up to grab at it, but it was mist, it was magic, and it wasn’t my magic, so I couldn’t touch it.
I couldn’t touch it. I couldn’t pull it off.
I couldn’t fucking breathe.
Panic made my vision darken around the corners, but I refused to give up. I refused to let a blood witch kill me.
I refused to let the Emissaries of Gepisha’s Iron win.
Keeping my sword arm up so the blood witch didn’t use his own weapon on me, I reached into another pocket for another spell. This time, I was looking for something specific. Or, well, two specific things, really.
I threw the first vial at the blood witch, but before it could break on the ground, another red tendril whipped out of the man and caught it, bringing it up so he could examine it—precisely what I wanted him to do.
Another tendril grabbed my wrists, yanking them back and leaving me completely vulnerable to him.
I couldn’t reach into my pockets anymore. I couldn’t move my arms. I couldn’t fucking breathe.
But this fucker wasn’t going to kill me. No fucking way.
His eyes were on the vial, and I already had exactly what I needed in my hand—a stick.
He probably didn’t even notice it, or if he did, he dismissed it, not realizing the stick was actually a magical artifact given to me by Delaro Ellwood—he’d supplied all of us with lots of magical artifacts, tonics, potions, and spells.
It wasn’t easy, but I was able to move my fingers a tiny bit. So I snapped the stick in half, releasing the stored spell and using my own dragon magic to reach out to it and tell it where to aim.
Get that asshole blood witch!
It swooshed out and blasted the blood witch, blasted my enemy, with the power of death magic and moonbeams—or something like that.
All I knew was that the magic smacked the asshole in the face so hard, his head snapped back with a loud crack, his body flew back several feet, and the shock of it broke the dick’s concentration.
And witches, no matter what kind, needed concentration to hold spells.
His magic released me so quickly, it was as if it’d never been there at all.