But would an introduction hurt? They could form a mutually beneficial relationship where they exchanged spells and techniques, like what was happening in front of me. Unaware of exactly what these witches were doing, I was impressed by the specificity and detail.
As they prepared the spell, I stole a glance at Cirrian. He appeared amused by my dilemma with the alchemy and kinborn witches. I glared and his lips lifted into a wicked smirk.
“I’ll see what I can do.” The noncommittal response was all I could manage. The witches’ faces brightened as if that was as good as a promise.
I leaned in and tried to make out what Madoc was inscribing on the clay sphere.
“It’s a locator,” he explained. “We’ll redirect the curse to it and then it’ll find its owner. You just follow that ball.” I could hear the pride in his voice.
“It’s less conspicuous and more precise than a locating map. It should damn near jump into the curser’s arms and then you can do what is necessary to have the curse removed,” Mave added. Her lips tightened into a line. “Someone with this level of magic and malicious intent is a menace to everyone,” she breathed out. “Their death will have more value than their life.”
They viewed this act as an attack that couldn’t go unpunished. But murder being the first and only suggestion made me uncomfortable. A discomfort that wasn’t justified because the attack was meant for me. This person wanted my magic and my death. I needed to interrogate them for answers because they obviously know more about me than I knew about myself.
Nodding, I stepped back and gave them room to work. I startled when warm breath brushed against my ear. “There is so much magic in this room. Very powerful and skilled magic. This is going to be interesting.”
“You okay, Kara?” Rachel asked, concern drifting over her features. Her attention lingered before she offered a sympathetic smile. I nodded, noting the pity in her eyes as she returned to her task.
To keep from fixating on the shadow god invading my personal space, I carefully watched the witches.
Once everything was set up, Cirrian slipped back into the corner. His eyes followed mine to the candles in a circle around the witches, and the sphere with the crimson fingerprint created by the athame they shared to each prick their finger. My optimism turned to concern. Alchemy witches preferred herbs. They were reluctant to use spells that required blood because doing so pulled too much energy from them. Their recoverywould be slow and would hinder their ability to use magic in a fight.
My attention shifted to Cirrian. His delight had diminished, and he avoided my eyes. Something about the way his tongue languidly slid over his bottom lip before biting it, bothered me. Nervousness? Anticipation? Curiosity? I couldn’t make out the reason, but something was off.
Not wanting to bring attention to myself by staring at a supposedly blank wall, I forced myself to return to the flutter of activity in front of me but had to work to maintain my composure at Cirrian’s sudden appearance next to me. His fluid predatory movements were going to be a problem for me. In a deep, eerily calm voice, he said, “Kara, remember our goals do not align. You have your duties and I have mine. It is good that you remember that.”
I didn’t need any reminders that his objectives were to collect souls and magic. He wasn’t particularly fond of whatever magic I possessed, and I suspected would prefer to collect it and Amelia. A two-fer.
Digging the heel of my foot into his toe, I aimed to cause him pain or at least discomfort. All it earned was a playful huff of laughter. His propensity to respond to pain and irritation with amusement was unnerving. I loathed admitting that dealing with the likes of Cirrian was entirely beyond my skill level. I briefly considered taking the opposite approach, and handling him with kindness, perhaps indulgence, but my conscience—or maybe my pride—wouldn’t allow it. His behavior barely warranted civility.
Hands linked, the witches formed a half-circle around Amelia. Rachel and another witch, whose name I couldn’t recall, closed the circle by taking Amelia’s hands in theirs. The heavy quiet was broken by Latin incantations, the preferred languagefor more potent spells. A surge of energy filled the air, its powerful presence slithering across my skin.
Cirrian’s anticipatory expression mixed with open curiosity. The clay sphere with Madoc’s inscriptions pulsed to life, glowing a soft lilac. It spun slowly above Amelia.
“Fascinating,” Cirrian murmured. His cool composure was undisturbed. A stark contrast to my maelstrom of emotions.
The sphere’s slow rotation became a frenetic spiral as it dragged the curse from the sigils, pulling and tugging in a wrathful battle of magic. Then the sphere disintegrated, forming a dark mist that coiled into links before wrapping itself around the witches. Their hands released. They grabbed for their necks, choking and gasping for breath. The two witches farthest from Amelia received the same treatment as the kinborn witch Darren had earlier. They were tossed against the wall with brutal force. They were alive but unconscious and choking for air. The same was true for Madoc and Mave. But Rachel and the other witch, who were closest to Amelia, had collapsed and weren’t breathing.
“Help me,” my strained voice demanded of Cirrian. He stilled, taking in the situation with a dispassion that sharpened the anxiety and anger I was unable to temper before I repeated my demand. He remained immobile, his lips pressed into a grim line.
I rushed to Rachel’s side and checked for a pulse. It was faint as hell but there. The same for the other witch. I wasn’t gentle dragging them closer together before giving each of them rescue breaths. My fury at Cirrian was escalating with every movement. I hated him. With every fiber of my being. I despised his apathy. His dark gaze met mine. In it, I saw something calculating. He had expected this. He knew something would go wrong and hadn’t warned me.
Their pulses and breathing had returned to normal, but they hadn’t come to. “You’re an asshole,” I blasted.
“Probably.” He sauntered past me to Amelia, whose head had flopped to the side. He examined the markings on her neck. “Their spell didn’t affect mine. You now have seventy-one hours.”
“That’s all you have to say!” I snapped. “You knew this would happen?”
“Isuspectedit would happen,” he corrected. “They are a powerhouse of magic,” he said, waving his hand over the debilitated witches. “It’s unfortunate that whomever you’re dealing with is stronger.”
I wasn’t confident it was just awho. Could it be a group? A coven of witches who wanted me dead? I thought of Jonah and his group of unregulated coven-less witches who weren’t bound by traditional coven rules. He didn’t strike me as the type of person governed by a sense of propriety.
As much as I wanted to address Cirrian, I had six witches to worry about. Retrieving my phone, my fingers hovered over the buttons as I debated whether to call an ambulance. How would I explain this? Supernaturals typically handled their own. There were healers among them, but this wasn’t a magical problem. They were—well, breathing with a pulse. And thankfully, before I had to settle on a decision, Rachel stirred. Then the others did as well.
Rachel stood first, her hand pressed against her head, glaring as she took in the condition of the room and the other witches coming too and standing.
“Who can do this sort of magic?” she asked. “I don’t know any witch who can cloak their magic like this.” Intrigue and anger pulled her features into a scowl. Then her expression softened. “How bad was it?” Rachel asked me.
“You and—” Embarrassed that I didn’t know her name, I looked at the other witch.
