Chapter 14 Vaxan #3
“If you can’t control it, I will teleport to the valley between these mountains wherein Ryker Morgan’s defensive magic is at its most potent.”
He took a moment, then gave a nod. His lips quirked. “Good compromise.”
I winked. “I know.”
I called my citrine power to both palms and readied myself.
Then I watched Winter swivel his free hand, a frost mist erupting and swirling around the prism that swiftly evolved into a solid containment field that sealed the prism within.
He sighed in relief as he had his Wraith frost take the strain off his Necromancy.
When he closed his left hand and snuffed out the frost now that the container was forged, I saw him move to do the same to his amber necromantic power still flaring on his right palm—well, sputtering in and out.
But he stopped himself, gritted his teeth, then thrust his hand forward at the container instead.
His power shot through the containment field in a controlled stream, not harming the integrity of it one little bit. It whipped around the prism with impressive, clear expert manipulation.
He didn’t stop there. His magic flamed carefully, yet powerfully, the glimmering of the prism intensifying to an exponential degree.
Cracks of glowing orange and yellow light began to form all over, traveling through the prism’s surface area, faster and faster—until it finally shattered.
Black and blue magic erupted in the form of lashing tendrils that had the both of us jolting.
Winter recovered in a split-second, and with the essence of the interference now drawn out, he began the incantation from the grimoire.
It wasn’t within his eyeline now, and he’d only reviewed it once, yet he uttered it word-for-word. I’d studied it myself several times over to ensure I understood the spell—and to make sure it was safe—so I knew it well.
His voice was steady and commanding.
The tendrils lashed out, heading for him. They slammed up against the container savagely.
I frowned as I saw them morph from a mixture of magic and almost-flesh to a sharp, metallic state, slashing and scraping against the ice, cutting into it ferociously, all in a bid to get to Winter.
But he didn’t cease the spell.
In fact, despite his entire body beginning to tremble, he marched onward, his tone becoming more vehement.
His amethyst eyes transformed to flaming amber, the pupils fading behind it, as he entered the Death Sense state.
His skill was beyond what I’d even imagined for somebody who’d shied away from further training.
What he was demonstrating here was instinctive expertise and incredible talent.
Even as his hand shuddered, even as he struggled, he maintained absolute control.
That was essentially unheard of for most magic-wielders in any significant distress.
I couldn’t quite believe it.
The depth of his fear toward what he could become… in this moment it was clearer than ever just how dearly that had cost him. His potential couldn’t quite be quantified. It might not actually be able to ever be.
This wasn’t him being the son of Sylas Morgrave, nor the son of Velra Nox, nor even the son of Lazriel Thaine or Cassius Ashmoor—this was all Winter.
His power.
His expertise.
His alone.
It didn’t take observing mammoth expulsions of magic to identify this sort of thing. It was in moments like this, the invocation of precise, complex spellwork that was the true determinant of vast—or unlimited—potential. And at his age, it was even more remarkable.
I had been training since I was a young boy and I hadn’t stopped like he had with his necromantic side. I was six years his senior, yet his expertise was beyond mine.
“Extraordinary,” I breathed in wonder.
Unfortunately, that wonder morphed to a great deal of worry as he suddenly thrust his free hand at the container, his fist shattering it with one mighty hit.
“What are you doing?” I called over.
“I can’t… track it. It’s not working. Too much… resistance. It won’t allow me to without… making contact.”
“Winter, no! We can’t be certain that—”
It was too late.
The tendrils shot forward, lunging at him, then wrapping around his hand that was live with his necromantic power.
“Shadows!” I reminded him.
In the next moment, he called them forth with his left hand, sweeping that aspect of his Wraith abilities around himself—but not using them to dispel the attack as I’d hoped.
Instead, he was using them to contain the tendrils with himself.
So they couldn’t escape.
So I couldn’t stop him.
Curses! He knew I couldn’t do so without hurting him.
“I need… to know,” he gritted out to me. “This can’t… continue. This… weakness… this glitching. I can’t… be this way.”
I grimaced as I watched the tendrils burning into his flesh, even as his necromantic power flared around the site.
I realized then that he wasn’t using it to hold them off, to stop them. He was holding that poison to him while he made a connection through physical touch.
I started forward.
The idea of hurting him made me absolutely sick to my stomach. However, if this continued on, slight hurt would be the least of it.
Just as I went to fire my power, he jerked violently.
All his magic snuffed out against his will, and he screamed as he slapped his hands to his head. “No! Get out! Get the fuck out!”
He convulsed.
His fists clenched.
Then he slammed them into the ground, forcing me to leap backward with a mixture of Basilisk agility and speed, just as it sent out an amber shockwave several feet all around him.
The tendrils shrieked at a pitch that was near-deafening.
And then they exploded into black and blue sludge, and blood that was the darkest shade of red I’d ever seen.
I was skidding to my knees beside him in the next moment.
He lurched forward and vomited all over the snow.
Vomited that same black and blue substance—sans the blood.
Hades.
I’d read about something very similar to that before.
The Mark of Draco.
The Fallen.
The killer of so many.
The beast who had reigned over the supernatural world four decades ago.
The twisted Immortal who had long since been defeated by Mia Snow, the daughter of Cornelius Martel.
Then… how? How was this—
Winter lifted his head as I stroked his back, trying to offer some semblance of comfort, if that was even possible currently.
He looked out at me, a haunted expression sending a chill down my spine, as he uttered, “Transmortalis.”
“What?”
“That’s what it called me.”
Latin for beyond death.
Before I could respond, he choked, “It won’t stop.”
“Winter—”
He jerked away and rose to his feet unsteadily.
I rose too, eyeing him with a great deal of worry. “Talk to me. What else did you hear? Did you track the source?”
“You… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… but you… you need to stay away from me.”
“Never. I told you I won’t leave you. Not when you’re battling with your magic, and not because of whatever this is.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
I reached out, but he jerked back again. “I’ll be your end. Stay away. Just stay the fuck away.”
With that, he swept himself up in a swirl of his amber magic and teleported out.
Damnation!