And then I go back to the worst memory, calling it up in such vivid detail, my chest constricts with the weight of fresh grief, sharp and devastating, stealing my breath.
My parents’ death. I hear their screams as the water rushes through the canyons. I feel my father’s hands on me as he shoves me into the cave, saving my life. I see them vanish in the rushing water.
I feel the loss of them as if it just happened. And in this moment—this brutal, terrible moment—I know that this is a pain the Magician and I share.
It’s also the way I break him.
Deep inside me, the dark flame turns into an inferno, pushing its black magick through my veins, consuming me with the need for one thing and one thing only: vengeance.
Drawing on the power of the reversed Moon card, I whisper the spell that comes to mind, so softly he can’t hear it.
But I can.
Darkest moon, darkest night
Now I set these wrongs to right
What darkness festers in my heart
Upon his evil mind impart
By blood and flame and breath and bone
These terrors become his alone
And then I call upon the one man whose presence—real or imagined—still has the power to bring the Dark One to his knees.
The First Fool.
Leap, and the net will appear…
“Your father must be so disappointed in you,” I say. “Disgusted, actually. He died to bring magick into this world—he made you the Arcana Magician—andthisis how you use that gift? You’repathetic. It’s probably a good thing he died, because if he saw you now… Goddess, I can only imagine.”
And that’s all it takes. The mention of his father fills his memory with the man’s image, sending him back through time.
And my dark magick does the rest, taking hold of his fears and his anger, his resentment at his father for leaving the family, his deep sense of abandonment and magnifying them, making him doubt his own feelings and memories.
“Pathetic!” I call out again, filling my voice with rage, unleashing all my darkness and fury at once. I sense it the moment the magick takes true hold. His breath hitches, and he falls to his knees, just as I intended, driven there by awe and resentment and fear and confusion. Every one of his feelings radiates through the room, washing over me. I feel dirty and disgusting for using his father’s death in this way, but I don’t dare stop.
The darkness inside me flares hot.
My bonds weaken, then break.
Across the room, the Magician clutches his head and lets out a cry of agony so intense, it makes me shudder.
For the briefest of moments, I understand his pain. Understandhim.
But trauma—no matter how terrible, now matter how deep its scars may run—doesnotgive him a free pass to inflict violence and brutality on others.
Free from my bonds, my wounds healing, I climb down from the altar and rush for the table, grabbing the Sword of Breath and Blade.
“Get up,” I command, but the crumpled man at my feet doesn’t obey. He’s crying now, rocking back and forth, still holding his head as if he’s trying to keep the memories at bay.
“Why?” he asks in a broken whisper. “Why, why, why, why, why?”
“Because you’re a monster and you fucking deserve it!” I shout, my hands trembling as hard as my voice. Vengeance. That’s all I want now. One more step. That’s all it would take. One more step, a quick jab, and I could end him.
He said it himself—all things are possible here, even our deaths.
