“Yes,” he says confidently. “But not just yet.”
He’s puffing up like a peacock, but inside, I can tell he’s starting to unravel. To doubt.
He goes back to his chanting.
I go back to my thinking.
What do I have? No weapons. No clothing. Severe blood loss. No magick owl power. No use of my limbs. So, the list of “haves” is thin.
Moving on. What do I know?
I know Phaines isn’t going to kill me—at least not yet. He needs me for this, and if the ritual doesn’t work, he’ll come up with some other torture first. So I’ve got a little bit of time on my side—though probably not much.
As for magick, I’m not strong enough in any one element to make something big happen, and at the moment, I can’t even call up my witchfire.
Fuck.
Okay, no panicking.Think, Stevie. Fucking think!
Another jab of the blade in my gut, and I gasp, my eyes flying open. Phaines is turning wild with rage, his mouth and chin dark and shiny with my blood.
“Give me the translation!” he shouts. “Give me the spell of Shadow and Mists!”
Healing, I remind myself, ignoring his rants. I can heal. I can read people’s emotions. My empathy isn’t just about reading energy, it’s about knowing what’s missing from those energies. And right now Phaines is missing something.
What does he need?
To feel powerful, but he doesn’t. He’s not the man in charge—just a soldier in the dark war brewing. And he knows I’ve already started putting some of the pieces together, and so has Kirin.
He needs control, but he’s losing it quickly, panicking. Something tells me he doesn’t want this power to serve the one—he wants it for himself. He want to use the spell, find the sacred objects.
Possess magick for himself.
He’s afraid of being caught.
Fear.
What did Devane say about fear?
I cast my memory back through his classes, his lectures.
Fear is a powerful weapon. All it takes is a single doubt, a single crack in your armor, and the enemy will find it and exploit it to the fullest extent…
See, Doc? I was totally paying attention.
“Professor,” I say, steadying myself, making my voice as authoritative as I can. I gaze into his eyes, unblinking. A smile curves my lips. “A message from the dark one.”
Phaines looks back at me, uncertain. He worries this is a trick, but his courage wavering.
I stare at him, unblinking, my smile firmly in place.
And there in his eyes, I see it.Fear. A single doubt. A crack in his armor.
If Phaines had attended Mental Magicks class, he’d know what else Devane said about fear—that it isn’t real. But Phainesdoesn’tknow that. And I’ve got my opening.
It’s a dangerous thing, knowing a man’s weakness.
I recall one of the phrases from Mom’s work—one I translated, one Phaines is unlikely to know. Still holding his gaze, I recite:
