AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Hey Zayn!” I called out, distracting him from the encroaching danger. “Ever think your own power would be your demise?”
His snarl was their cue. With one fluid motion, Riker launched himself at the djinni, his fists swinging like wrecking balls. On the other flank, Niko flashed into his wolf shape, his eyes electric with predatory focus. Together, they battered at Zayn’s defenses.
Meanwhile, my fingers stayed wrapped around the cool glass in Riker’s bag, the vial that had sparked my eureka moment. Gripping it tight, I stood up and approached the fray. The small bottle caught the light, glinting with a clear liquid.
“Uh, Tessa?” Elijah said. “I don’t think splashing him with holy water is gonna do much.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But trust me, I’ve got a plan.”
I positioned myself opposite the brawling trio. Then I dumped the bottle upside down with a flick of my wrist, watching the holy water spill onto the scorched floor like wasted potential.
Zayn still hadn’t looked at me.
“Hey, Cairo!” I called out.
“Need a hand?” Cairo’s voice cut through the chaos, laced with that British composure that somehow never seemed to wilt, no matter how hot things got.
I dodged a stray ember that threatened to singe my curls. “Some help here. How do I do this?”
Cairo grinned. “Just pull him in with your magic. I’ll keep him busy.”
In a dance of flames and fury, Cairo darted forward, his form blurring into a streak of desperate speed. As he drew Zayn’s fiery gaze, I charged.
“Zayn, consider this an eviction notice,” I declared, my pulse racing with the thrill of the hunt. The fire magic within me surged, eager to leap forth and devour. I thrust my hand out, fingers splayed, and unleashed a torrent of blue flames that struck Zayn square in the chest. He roared, a sound that shook the very air around us, and tried to pull away, but it was too late.
The flames whirled and danced, twining around him before pulling him inexorably toward the bottle. His resistance crumbled like charred paper, the mighty King of the Djinn reduced to a mere wisp being sucked into the narrow neck of the vessel.
Then he was gone.
“Adiós, Your Highness,” I whispered as I jammed the cork in place with a satisfying thud.
The world hushed, as if holding its breath, the only sound my own heart thudding in my ears. I peered into the glass prison, where a tempest of red smoke coiled and churned, a silent fury captured in miniature. King Zayn’s essence swirled, a storm of scarlet mist that clung to the curves of his bottle like a desperate plea, a writhing shadow drying out the space where the holy water had been moments before.
“Who knew djinn could be so... bottled up?” I said, the corner of my mouth lifting despite the adrenaline vibrating through me.
A chuckle escaped Cairo, though it wavered with relief. He had every reason to laugh; we’d pulled off the impossible. The guy looked like he wanted to both kiss me and pass out, a sentiment I wholeheartedly shared. I shot him a grin, noticing how Poppy clutched his arm, her eyes wide and disbelieving.
Exhaustion hit me, and I sank to my knees, the bottle clutched in my trembling hands as I fought not to drop it.
The last thing I needed to do was set the djinni free again.
“Looks like this hunter just bagged the big one,” I muttered, allowing myself a small smirk of satisfaction.
My hair was plastered to my forehead, slick with sweat—not the most flattering look, but hey, when you’re wrestling with ancient fire spirits, hair is the least of your worries.
“Guess this means I’m officially adding ‘Djinn Wrangler’ to my resume,” I mused, still staring at the bottle. It felt like a surreal trophy—won through some seriously pyrotechnic problem solving.
We’d faced a king and come out on top, using everything from brute force to a bit of brilliance—and, all right, a teensy bit of grandstanding.
“Take that, Your Highness,” I said to the bottle, before setting it down gently, almost reverently, on the ground. “Consider yourself dethroned.”
The pulse in my ears gradually gave way to the sound of our collective panting.
“Could someone please tell me,” I wheezed, propping myself up on one elbow, “why supernatural smackdowns never get easier?” I glanced around at my team, each member a picture of exhaustion painted with a broad brush of relief.
Elijah slumped against a wall, his eyes closed. Niko, still in werewolf form, panted heavily, his tongue lolling out.
And Helen? She was casually checking her nails, as if she hadn’t just gone ten rounds with the supernatural equivalent of a heavyweight champ.
