Page 76 of Mage Massacres

But we had been friends long enough to know if Palmer and Novak agreed on something, then it was best to listen. They weren’t infallible, though they were rarely wrong.

Sloane sat on the ground, watching the sunset as she leaned her left side against the back of Pete’s head. She absently raked her fingers behind his ear, scratching at his coarse hide. Then she grew still.

“What if he has some sort of mark hidden on his body?” she suggested. “So many legends come to mind, but it’s hard to narrow them down without some kind of knowledge on his particular curse. And there are quite a few stories where the curse left a symbol on its victims.”

Palmer tipped his head. “While you’re touching him, do you feel a blockage or a wall inside him? Anything that sticks out as not being natural?”

She placed both palms on his leathery skin, resting her forehead between them. I joined her, sinking to my knees at the pedmar’s back to search his body for anything that could be healed or removed.

His magic dripped as if it were a leaking faucet when it should be a river. I closed my eyes, envisioning that I was smoothing the edges, clearing the bank of debris.

It was slow and would take weeks at this rate. But the drops sped up slightly, so I scraped harder, wishing I could physically clear the obstruction. As I pushed my power into the sleeping pedmar, I heard Sloane whispering to Novak.

“Can you hear him, too?” she questioned, a hint of panic in her voice.

“He’s dreaming,” the vampire told her.

“He’s a man, and he’s running through a forest,” she informed us, flashing images of his surroundings.

My back snapped straight. “That flora is fae.”

Sloane maneuvered to her knees, keeping her connection with Pete open while pulling us into his dream.

He was running through the forest outside of the summer fae kingdom, heading toward a village. The smoke from their huts was visible through the green canopy. He jumped over fallen trees and thorn bushes, already cut and bleeding. He cast a glance behind him, a horizontal wave of purple magic chasing his tail.

He fled the attack, trying to warn his people. As he burst out of the treeline, he startled grazing pedmars with his shouting. All of them frantically rushed ahead. Some of them shifted, their humanoid sizes challenging to decipher at Pete’s speed. But he wasn’t fast enough.

The magic caught him, violently knocking him to the ground. He climbed back to his feet, refusing to give up, though his head hung as he entered the village. He began instructing the people who had survived the blast. As they packed what they could carry in their hands, Pete covered their dead with linens.

He blinked, and we were at the fae portal. They were all confused and upset, injured and tired.

Another blink had us staring at the crimson and gray sky of the Underworld, a pack of pedmars grazing in a field. No humanoid figures were among them until Pete turned his head to mentally murmur his thanks to Nate.

Sam ordered a team of demons to clean up the valley to offer sanctuary to the homeless creatures. He and Ren, the imp from Paradise, popped in and out, carrying supplies.

Amelia moved her hands, mouthing a spell that created a thick purple barrier around the valley and one side of a mountain, foot by foot. My mother touched the center of her back, giving her a boost of energy to finish her task. Then Vex joined my father, healing the herd, one by one.

Tears welled in Sloane’s eyes, though she refused to let them fall. Pete tapped her chest with his trunk, and the thundering voice that echoed in our minds was exactly what I imagined him sounding like.

“Memories,” he illuminated. “Pelitore. Finnegan. Tariff. Death. Curse.”

“Slow down,” she pleaded, pressing her forehead against him once more. “Those are your memories, not a dream. I understand that. What does Pelitore mean?”

Magic was seeping into him from the ground, his channels twice as wide as when I’d started healing him, but I needed more time. His skin had washed out even more, his ears shrinking as his trunk shortened. He still used the appendage to touch Sloane’s head and his own.

“Pelitore.”

“Is that your name?” she guessed.

He chirped in response, but something wasn’t right with the tone.

None of this was right… Though it wasn’t exactly wrong, either.

“Explain, Vaughn,” she urged, glancing up at me when my thoughts were broadcasted through the current connection. “What’s happening to him?”

“Do you feel my magic?” I calmly inquired, hoping I could ease her concern. “Start where my hands are, and follow the chill. What you’re looking for is darkness tinted with purple.”

“I see it—sense it?”