Chapter 22 #4
Fenric raises an eyebrow.
I wince.
"How?"
"Magic."
“What magic?”
I try to keep my face blank. “Just magic.”
Despite everything, the corner of his mouth twitches.
I look away.
"What matters," I say quickly, forcing my attention back to Fenric, "is that no one should be able to see us."
I gesture toward the shimmering air.
"The monsters couldn't. The other groups probably couldn’t. Everything just sort of... looked past us."
"Looked past us?"
"I don't know how else to explain it."
The words sound foolish even to me.
But they're true.
"When I use it, beings stop noticing us. They stop paying attention. It's like we stop being important."
Fenric studies the shimmering air around us.
Then he studies me.
A thoughtful expression settles over his face.
"And you think it will work on warlocks?"
The question lands heavily between us. I want to say yes. I want to sound confident. Certain. Instead, I think about Thorian. About the fireballs. About the screams. About the fact that I'm making all of this up as I go.
"I think so," I say finally.
It's not a lie. Not entirely. It's just not certainty.
Fenric seems to realize that. His gaze softens. "Hey."
I look at him.
A tired smile appears on his face. "We made it across the swamp."
"Barely."
"We still made it. We’ll be okay now too."
Something warm settles in my chest.
For a moment, I almost believe him. Almost believe we're safe. Then a cold, echoing laugh drifts through the smoke.
Every muscle in my body locks.
"Oh, really?" a voice calls. "Magnus, come over here. You have to see this."
“Antone, stop fucking around, that demi-god is—”
The second voice cuts off with a sudden laugh, and I begin to shake at how close they are to Fenric and me. Maybe they don’t see me. Maybe we’ll be okay. Maybe they’re laughing at something else.
But then, with a rush of cold, glacial energy, I feel the magic around me suck away, like dust mites flowing out an open window. Like I never could have held onto it if I wanted to.
When I raise my head and open my eyes, I see two of the warlocks standing just beyond Fenric’s boots, still laughing.
They wear velvet and silk robes that are relatively untouched, especially compared to us.
While we’re dirty and sweaty, looking worse for the wear, my leathers damp, the warlocks look like they can magic themselves clean.
Or, like they haven’t even had a reason to get dirty. I try to think about them at the cliffs. During the fight with the monsters, were they even going after any of the weapons or tools? Or did they just leave?
Perhaps they can magic up anything they want for themselves. Why fight over a bed roll when you can conjure yourself a bed each night?
I bite my lip, wishing I knew more about magic, feeling small and stupid in front of them. Wishing Fenric were strong right now.
Hands shaking, I reach for my dagger, only taking two tries to get the thing into my hand.
“Stay back,” I rasp, holding it up and pointing it at them, which only makes them laugh harder, their faces flushing, their stupid, pointed beards too fine and clean for the setting we’re in.
I hate them, and I understand the venom in Fenric’s voice earlier.
“Stay back, she said,” the one in the blue, Antone, guffaws, while the other shakes his head, gathering a little ball of energy in his palm and holding it up for me to look at.
“Of course we’ll stay back, you stupid girl,” the one in the purple robe, Magnus, says.
“This fire is hot enough to melt platinum. It will turn you to mush, then turn that mush to ash. Not only do we not need to be near you to do it, but it would be rather stupid for us to stand close to a fire that hot, don’t you think? ”
I could point out the fact that, thanks to their magical flames, most of the forest is on fire around us, the canopy dripping, molten with the blaze.
Or, I could beg for their mercy. Call upon them not to murder a lady and an injured man.
But something about them tells me that they prefer it this way, that they like to corner the weak and take them out while standing nice and far away. It’s part of the reason they waited for us to get across the swamp before descending upon us.
So I don’t beg for my life.
I tip up my head, take a deep breath, and find grace for myself.
My life might be about to end, but I know that I did everything I could to get to the end. I did everything I could to win, to save my sister.
And, at the very least, at least death by magical fire will be quick.
“Nyx?” Fenric asks weakly, and I shush him, still holding one arm up, the dagger shaking in my hand.
I watch as Magnus and Antone back up, the ball in Magnus’s palm getting bigger, his arm raising up to fire it at us. I put my arms around Fenric and breathe deeply, hoping Thorian is okay, and, strangely, thinking of Talon, hoping that he, too, can make it out of this.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I lie, taking a breath and facing my death the only way I know how, the only way that feels right.
The way my mother would have.
Head on.