And another, his wild blue eyes taking shape in the darkness, a small wand held tight in his fist.
My heart drops into my stomach. I’d recognize the madness in that gaze anywhere.
“Clever little witch,” the Dark Magician sneers. “Just like her clever little mother.” He steps fully into the light, aiming the wand directly at me. “Now, would you prefer to relinquish my sword before or after I remove your head?”
Seventeen
STEVIE
Kirin and Baz are a blur in my periphery as they charge straight for the Magician. But he’s more than ready for the attack, raising his free hand and dispensing a powerful blast of magick before they even get close.
It takes me a few beats to process what just happened. To realize that the Magician never once took his eyes off me, and Kirin and Baz are in a crumpled heap on the ground at his feet, unconscious.
The fact that I can still sense their energy is the only reason I know they’re alive at all.
“Sword. Now.” The Magician creeps toward me, his fingers already reaching out for the weapon, the sickly yellow glow of his magick emanating from his palm. In the other hand, he grips his wand, still pointing it at my face.
I have no idea what kind of damage he can do with that thing.
Terror seizes my limbs. It’s all I can do to hold my sword upright as he stalks toward me, leaving Baz and Kirin behind like discarded trash.
The thought ignites fresh anger inside me, and I hold on to the feeling, using it to fuel my courage.
“Don’t take another step.” I point the tip of my blade at his chest. “I’ve got a magick sword and akillerresting witch face, and I’m not afraid to use them.”
He chuckles, an act that only makes his eyes look crazier, but my words seem to have some effect. He backs off, slowly lowering his weapon.
I’m not stupid enough to lower mine.
For the moment, we’re at a standstill.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him up close, the enemy we’ve feared since my very first vision, and all the lore books and speculation that came after. He’s got a dingy white beard and mustache, and he’s dressed exactly as I remember, in a long gray tunic and raven-feather cape. His belt is laden with spell pouches, amulets, and desiccated animal parts—all the tools of the trade.
Crazy eyes and grunge couture aside, he looks like somebody’s drunken grandfather—a little rough around the edges, with an obvious tendency toward hoarding, but not exactly a deranged mastermind bent on seizing control of magick and killing anyone who stands in his way.
Then again, I thought Professor Phaines looked like a grandfather too. That blindness nearly got me killed.
I won’t be making that mistake again.
I tighten my grip on the sword, the magick heating my palms. Warmth rises inside me, and I feel the presence of my Princess of Swords, but I don’t dare turn around to check.
I’m not taking my eyes off this motherfucker.
The motherfucker in question lets out a grunt, then shifts his gaze, the look on his face morphing from batshit crazy to pure, uncut adoration.
At first I wonder if he can see the Princess too, but no. It’s not my super-hot elemental affinity that’s got him so entranced.
It’s the sword. It’s captured his complete attention. The dude is practically hypnotized.
I lower it ever so slightly, then bring it back up, his eyes tracking the movement like a dog hoping for a piece of meat.
Goddess, each one of these Dark Arcana nutjobs is more unhinged than the last…
“Mine,” he says. He’s practically salivating.
“Well, you know what they say about possession. Nine-tenths of the law, finders keepers, all that jazz.”
“Mine,” he repeats, his eyes glazed with cult-like devotion as he resumes his slow steps toward me. “I am the ancient one, the legacy. It’salwaysbeen mine. My birthright. My—”
