Page 43

“Why would I want to hurt the only other mage I’ve ever met?” The words soured strangely when he spat them. Orpheus shoved the impression aside and put his broken hands to the bars, breathing through the pain. “We either die here together or days from now when that thing catches up to wherever the hell you call home.”

“Gwen can hardly produce enough Netherflame to fire a spell, let alone ignite that cannon.”

“Do you want a crash course on magical theory or a solution to your Hell beast problem? Because we only have time for one.” Atticus’ lip curled, but Orpheus forged on. “This is what you wanted, right? My help? I’ll help you with this, and then...” Their eyes met, and Orpheus knew he’d read Atticus right. “…Then, I will help you fix Sanctuary.”

If there was one thing Fenrir taught him, it’s that it’s never impossible to find hope in the unlikeliness of places. Atticus must have agreed because when he turned back to his white cloaks, he said, “Keep the perimeter up as long as you can. Use the rest of the bombs if you have to. We’ll only get one shot at this.”

Chapter XII

The First Spell

Through the haze of smoke and embers, the iron lung waited like a mirage.

Orpheus’ legs trembled with every step he took. Walking amongst the white coats, his ankle chain scraped loudly over the shale, heavy with a weight he thought he’d shaken the last time he was here: within the Rim, staring down fate, staring down death. That his circumstances had changed really didn’t matter. Entropy played its role well regardless of how Orpheus thought he’d outrun its slow, chaotic slide into ruin.

A few steps behind, Atticus followed, bodily blocking him from Gwen as if Orpheus could do anything dangerous with his broken encased hands. At least he’d taken the muzzle off. Only the collar remained, somehow heavier than the chain at his ankle.

The iron lung twanged hollowly when Orpheus placed his encased hands atop its blackened shell.

“What’s the range on this thing?”

“Far enough, you should hope.”

Another howl rose, another shadow fell, and the Prometheus reached from beyond the dwindling perimeter of fire, empty eyes homed in on them. Atticus turned to one of his men and jerked his chin. Three white cloaks ran off towards the horses, torches disappearing into the churning mist.

They had a few minutes to make this work; three, maybe four—certainly no more than five.

It was enough. It had to be.

“I’ll make sure the creature remains within range, and Duluth will make sure you don’t attempt anything stupid.”

Duluth’s bulk briefly blocked out the light from the fire when he stepped out of the smoke. At his side, Gwen crowded close, Soot’s big white eyes locked onto the fire from his perch atop her shoulder.

But Gwen…Gwen stared at him.

Teach me. Everything. All that you know.

Atticus noticed Orpheus’ staring and gave him a shove. “Don’t make me regret this, my unfortunate mage.” Then, he too charged into the smoke, Duluth taking his place beside Orpheus with that dead, empty stare.

Orpheus swallowed his unease, turned to Gwen, and confronted all that was about to happen—what he’d agreed to do.

She’s just a child.

Well, so was he when he first learned how destructive his magic could be.

“We don’t have time to waste, get over here.”

Gwen jerked, then scrambled for the iron lung, hands slapping flat atop its dark cylinder while she stared up at him, wild-eyed.

“When you said your sigils never worked in the past, were you working out of a grimoire or off an existing spell?”

Desperate curiosity dragged Gwen’s fingers across the iron, dark streaks left in their wake. “I was copying them from what I found around Sanctuary.”

“So, you had no knowledge of what they were intended for or what elements they were controlling?”

Gwen’s withering look said more than any verbal answer. That infuriating attitude returned, what Orpheus was beginning to realize was a defense mechanism—one that would surely grate against him at every turn if he allowed it.

All hells, was this really happening? Was he really teaching this child?