“Easily fixed,” he says, waving his other hand over the flaming table so that a vacuum snuffs the fire out, before relighting the candles that had been casualties of their skirmish.
“I’m not going to let a bit of nosy interference delay me. Unfettered access to all the power of creation, as planned by the Moon Goddess. All this has to be under the Wolf Moon, the death of a powerful Wolf, and a place where all the elements meet.”
He waves his hand like a game show host. The wind picks up, carrying the sound of crashing waves toward him, the tiny flames from the candles flickering against the granite stones.
“Perfect, right?”
It was perfect. Horrifically so.
All the elements are in the right place at the right—wrong—time.
“So now what? Do you plan to suck Carnell’s soul under the moon? I’d like to see that. Well-deserved. If a bit romantic, but surely he won’t be eager to agree.”
“Ew. No sucking,” Withers says with a grimace.
It’s ironic because his lips have partially rotted away, leaving his gums and teeth visible through the flesh.
“I plan to take his heart. The heart of a wolf-king, taken during the height of the Wolf Moon, brings immense power.Men follow him, and he decides fates. He rules his domain. Surely you can see it’s inspired.”
He grins at his own cleverness, eager for Grayson’s praise like the narcissist he is.
“And then what?”
It sounds exactly like all the components of a ritual. Dark magic is something Grayson knows almost nothing about.
Magic users—himself included, thanks to his crash course yesterday—are trained to recognize The Plain as pure light; every wavelength, in every configuration, depending on the user and their gifts.
While the wordspellcan indicate a use of the light, there are no words in the practice itself. Just weaves, formulations, or mixtures of light.
“Spells” like the one Nimue had done for protection with her crystal goblet at their apartment were only meant to act as a focus for her light, a way of calling on other elements a user might not normally have as their Affinity.
But this monstrosity was not like that.
There was no telling where the mixture of words and magic had come from—ancient texts, or the creation of a madman harnessing soul magic.
It didn’t matter to Grayson.
He needed to be stopped.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grayson sees Jay nod, bracing to jump as high as he can to catch their mate—if Grayson can get Withers to just let go.
“Unlimited access to the Goddess’s power. I will rule the world. All will love me and despair.” He giggles at his clever use of virtuous Galadriel’s words, flipping his other hand over his shoulder like he’s tossing his hair. “Have power, don’t care.”
“So what now? There are three of us and only one of you,” Grayson taunts.
In a flash, he realizes his error.
He has a millisecond to process the next thirty seconds as they bloom behind his eyes. Just like in the gym at the Guild, when Rowan had fallen from the rafters in Ignatius’s office.
“Right you are…maybe I should even the odds a bit more?”
With that, Grayson’s vision is in motion.
As he’s predicted, Withers flings the hand he’s using to hold Rowan aloft out toward the wall’s edge. Like a wolf-shaped rag doll, Rowan shoots over the edge toward the deadly drop.
It all happens in slow motion.
As Rowan-wolf falls, Grayson is already flinging a shimmering, ribbon-like tether of fire and air out in front of him. At the same time, he Teleports past Withers and Jay. The magical tether latches onto Rowan’s wrist, his weight enough to pull Grayson over after him.
