Chapter Seventeen #2
Seb shakes his head. “No, you keep breaking that arcane wall; I’ll do the voice. And Orok—”
Seb’s eyes flash behind me. And widen.
“Distract him!”
I scramble around.
And realize the full breadth of my stupidity in one heart-shattering moment.
There’s a part of the ritual we haven’t emulated. A part the cultists hadn’t yet touched either.
The blood.
Tem is holding a dagger as long as his forearm.
“Thio!” I shout, banging on the arcane wall, little zaps of electricity shooting up my arms. “Get me in there!”
Bel still hangs from the beam. His eyes are round, and when he looks at me again, that resignation flashes over him.
For eight years he’s run from this. For eight years he’s lived dozens of lies to stay safe from this very moment, and now it’s here.
A tear rolls down his face, and he tries to smile, wobbling and scared.
I love you, he mouths.
I bang on the wall again, panic clawing through me. He doesn’t get to give up. I’m not giving up.
The cultists chant and sway. Tem faces Bel, a feverish grin stretching his lips.
“The blood of Galaxrien will free him,” he says, lifting the dagger. Aiming for Bel. “The blood of Galaxrien will free him.”
“STOP!” I scream.
“YOU FOOLS!”
The voice booms around the platform, startling a shout out of Aaron across from me.
“THIS IS NOT THE TIME OF MY PROPHESIED RETURN!” The flames around us blaze higher. “YOU HAVE SHAMED ME!”
The cultists freeze. Even Tem goes rigid, his knife still up and aimed.
Bel’s fear dissolves in—amusement.
He packs it away into appropriate terror, yanking on his chains for good measure, struggling and writhing.
My shoulders arch, hands curled, ready.
“YOU DARE HARM MY DESCENDANT, MY ANNOINTED BLOOD!” Galaxrien/Seb bellows. “FOOLS! INGRATES! RELEASE HIM! IF YOU HARM HIM, YOU WILL FEEL MY WRATH!”
More thunder shakes the platform; lightning flares and bursts so bright I wince. Choking smoke wraps around us, shielding Seb and Thio even more, highlighting the arcane barrier wrapped around the cultists and Bel.
The cultists cry out and drop to their knees. Only Tem remains standing, his arm with the dagger going slack.
He stares around, jaw distending, perplexity making him wilt. “My lord—”
“CEASE THIS IMPRUDENT MISSION!” Galaxrien/Seb continues. “YOU HAVE BEEN LED ASTRAY! I … uh … SMITE YOU! SMITE THEE … with, um … MY GREAT AND VENGEFUL DEMONIC POWER!”
Okay, Seb, wrap it up.
“BEGONE FROM MY SIGHT, FOOLISH MORTALS!”
The fire, the lightning, the smoke—it all vanishes at once.
“There,” Thio says, then, “Orok, now!”
A crack, a shattering splinter as the barrier falls; the noise barely registers. I’m moving.
I dive forward, a final wave of prickling electricity sheeting over my skin as I hurl my body toward Tem.
Aaron, Roesia, and Darian move at the same time I do. I’m half aware of grunts and shouts, a snarl, a rending tear, a wail.
All I see is Tem, twisting toward me.
For one stretched-out beat, his dismay morphs into shocked fear before I tackle him.
The dagger glances off my rawball padding and clatters across the concrete with a metallic ring. Tem cries out as he thuds to the floor, my full weight crashing down on him.
Something rolls next to us—the hot sauce bottle.
I don’t give him a beat to gain his breath; I grab the bottle and smash the fuck out of his face with it.
Oh, look. The hot sauce was an important part of the ritual after all.
Tem’s head snaps back, skull cracking on the stone. Blood flies from his nose and hot sauce ruptures across his face in a mini explosion.
I drop the broken bottle, rear back, fist wound—
“Orok!” Darian’s in front of me. “Go, I got him.”
Go? Tem’s unconscious but his face is still recognizable. He’s still breathing. I’m not done yet.
“Orok,” Darian says more firmly. “Your guy needs you.”
That rips me to my feet.
Darian strums a chord on his guitar and Tem’s whole body arches in a muscle spasm.
“I got him,” Darian says again.
Roesia and Aaron have the other cultists restrained or unconscious. Seb and Thio lean exhaustedly on each other. Bel’s hanging from the chain but Marlow’s above him, legs wrapped around the I beam.
Her eyes pop upside down to mine and she quickly signs, “Get ready to catch him,” before she goes back to work on the chain links.
I dive in, arms clamping around Bel’s waist to hold him to me. He mouths something at me and my lungs ache as I bellow, “Someone get rid of this damn silence spell!”
I’m unhinging. The weakened seams of my composure are fraying and I have nothing, nothing left to hold myself together.
Darian hits a chord on his guitar and Bel sucks in a rattling breath.
“Orok,” he tries, and sobs. “Orok!”
I kiss him, tasting my name on his lips and the salt of his tears, feeling the warmth of his exhale and the thrum of his anxiety as his body shudders in my arms. Or maybe that’s me shuddering; we’re both tremors and desperation.
The chain releases with a rattle of metal, and I make sure it doesn’t hit Bel as it falls to the ground. Marlow drops with it and undoes the cuffs.
I take Bel’s wrists and rub my thumbs over them, noting the redness, the way bruises are already forming.
I’m going to kill Tem.
Around us, everyone’s stunned. Cameras are still on us; security is now levitating toward the platform.
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is here, right here.
Bel’s okay. He’s all right. He’s tear-stained and wide-eyed and shaking, but he’s all right.
The tautness in my chest doesn’t let up, the knot in the base of my neck doesn’t untangle. I keep running my hands over Bel’s arms, his back, up to his neck and in his hair, like I’m searching for wounds or checking that he’s okay.
He’s okay. He’s all right.
Bel cups my jaw and angles me to look at him; our eyes connect.
“Hi,” he whispers.
I yank him into my arms, hand to the back of his head, holding him against me, feeling him breathe.
“We’re never doing that again,” I tell him.
Bel burrows into me. “No arguments here.” He pushes his face into my pec. “I’m sorry.”
“Sweetheart—”
“I know you didn’t want me to do it at all, and we rushed into it. And if it doesn’t work, if they still target me, I—I don’t know what it’ll mean, but—”
“Bel.” I rock his head back, gazing down at him.
He settles, lips parted, eyes watery.
I swipe my thumbs along his cheeks, clearing the streaked mascara. “I’m so damn proud of you.”
A smile pulls across his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Hell yes. I was about to lose my shit, and you kept your head on, and had us take the chance to stop all of this—you’re amazing. You did this.”
He scrunches his nose. “Well, I was no Galaxrien Vossen,” he says, barely a whisper.
We look over to where Seb has an arm curled around thin air. Nick, I’m guessing. Thio leans on Seb’s shoulder, sweaty and winded.
They’ll get the wedding of their fucking dreams after this. They would have anyway, let’s be honest, but now? Whatever they want. Hell, more than they want. They’re going to be spoiled rotten, I’ll make sure of it.
I nod at Seb. Thank you.
He cracks a smile, and it finally pulls one out of me, too.
Until Aaron clears his throat. “So. Um. What the fuck?”
The weight of what we did hits me.
Bel’s identity is out. To my team; to the world. And I dragged my teammates and manager into this.
I push Bel to the side, slightly behind me, and face Aaron, Marlow, and Darian—where’s—
Roesia is crouched beside Ilbryen, who’s still unconscious.
I shake my head and face my teammates. Who deserve an explanation. So many explanations. Security’s getting closer; we probably only have a few seconds before they land on the platform, and cameras are still recording.
“Thank you,” I hear myself say. “Thank you for helping me. Us. I—I can’t explain everything right now, but I will, gladly. Just know that you saved him. Saved—” I look down at Bel. Who grins up at me and nods. “Bel. Not Alexo.”
Darian, who’s still strumming on his guitar, keeping the cultists in stasis, shrugs and smiles. “It was like an extreme training exercise.”
Aaron does the Hellhounds bark, which quickly gets picked up across the stadium, until thousands of people are braying around us.
My eyes tear, because why not at this point. “Thank you. I can’t say it enough.”
Marlow grins. “Always.”
Security clatters onto the platform. Some get to work putting magic binds on Tem and the cultists, who are, thankfully, still unconscious.
Ilbryen, however, is waking up. She blinks dazedly while Roesia seems to be … sniffing her? Roesia’s orange eyes pulse brighter, interest like a craving flashing over her.
Ilbryen’s lips flicker in the smallest, barest grin.
“Wow,” Bel huffs next to me. “Did you manifest that?”
A surprised snort bursts out of me and I tighten my hold on him. I’m not sure how I’ll let him go—we still have a game to play.
Bel twists into me, smiling softly, like he can see all my concern play over my face. He can, probably.
He brushes his fingertips across my lips. “I’m proud of you, too, you know. I never could have done this, would never have even thought to do this, without you. If this works, it’s because of you.” His eyes glisten, golden and black. “Do you believe me yet?”
“Believe you?” I frown, thumb rubbing against his lower back.
“That you’re strong.” He smiles. “The strongest person I’ve ever met.”
I wait for the rebuttal. To argue with him or change the subject.
But nothing comes. I stare down into his smiling face while security works to fix this mess, while cameras fly all around us.
My hand moves up to my shoulder. To the corner of my jersey, to the patch I’ve stared at before every game. Urzoth’s axe in a stone.
Eyes on Bel, fingers shaking, I grab the edge of it and pull.
With a jagged rip, the patch comes off in my hand.
We win the rawball championship game.
After our display on the platform, the Dragons were so freaked they fumbled most of their plays. Turns out taking down a crazed demon cult is a good intimidation tactic; no one on the Dragons wanted to mess with us.