Page 120 of A Bolt of Magic

What have I done?

A binding spell catches my left leg, magical ropes of energy wrapping around my ankle. I blast them apart with raw force, but the momentary distraction costs me. Another spell hits my chest, sending me stumbling backward.

“You can’t have my daughter,” Lilith continues, pressing her advantage with a series of rapid-fire attacks that force me to give ground.

She strikes with ruthless efficiency. Binding spells wrap around my arms and legs faster than I can break them. Each rope of magical energy that snaps around me makes it harder to move, harder to fight back.

This is where precision is needed. A scalpel instead of a sword. It’s the kind of magic I am simply not capable of.

“You see?” she purrs as I struggle against the bonds. “This is why you’re not worthy.”

I pour everything I have into smiting her down, magic erupting from my body in wild, uncontrolled bursts. But Lilith bats my attempts away. She’s too skilled, too experienced.

Within minutes, I can’t move so much as a finger. The magical bonds hold me rigid, every muscle in my body locked in place by her will. I can’t even speak – she’s bound my jaw shut with the same magical ropes.

“Much better,” she says, approaching me with slow, deliberate steps. She reaches into her robes and withdraws a small glass vial filled with a thick, dark liquid that seems to move on its own. “Now we can get to the real business.”

I try to struggle, but it’s useless. My body no longer belongs to me.

“Open your mouth,” she commands, and to my horror, my jaw obeys against my will. The binding spell forces compliance, making me a prisoner in my own flesh.

“The era of the witch is about to begin,” Lilith says, her eyes bright with fanatical fervor as she uncorks the vial. “And you, my dear failed king, are going to help us usher it in.”

The fluid she pours down my throat tastes like liquid fire mixed with rot. It burns all the way down, leaving a trail of agony in its wake. I want to spit it out, want to resist, but my body swallows reflexively, consuming every last drop of whatever poison she’s given me.

For the first time in my life, I am truly, utterly terrified.

38

McColl

I jut out my jaw, everything in me tightening with anger and frustration. “I’m not going inside,” I say firmly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not sitting down. I’m not calming down, either. I’m staying right here until she arrives. And she’d better get here soon, or so help me…”

Lydia shifts uncomfortably. “McColl, please. It would be better if—”

“No.” I plant my feet more firmly on the stone step outside the door. “Whatever my mother has done, whatever trap she’s set for Kian, I’m not going to sit inside like a good little girl.” My voice cracks slightly. “I’m staying out here where I can see what’s happening. She’d better get back soon,” I mutter the last to myself. “And he’d better be alive.” My voice breaks a little.

“She will be here soon,” Lydia says. “She was clear on that. We were to contain you until she got here.”

The minutes crawl by. Every sound makes me jump, from the rustle of leaves in the wind, a bird calling from somewhere in the distance, the soft murmur of conversation between the Childrenof the Veil positioned around the house. My stomach churns with anxiety, and I can’t stop my hands from shaking. I start to pace to give myself something to do.

Where is he? What has she done to him?

The questions circle in my mind like vultures, growing more frantic with each passing moment. I pace back and forth in front of the door, ignoring Lydia’s increasingly worried glances.

Then I see her.

Finally.

A figure appears at the top of the hill, walking down the path toward the house with measured, deliberate steps. Even from this distance, I recognize my mother’s bearing, the way she holds herself like she owns the very ground beneath her feet.

She’s not alone.

Several Children of the Veil flank her, their dark green cloaks flowing behind them as they match her pace. Behind them, more figures follow. Villagers drawn by curiosity or concern, their faces tight with worry. The procession grows larger as it moves down the path, with more people joining from side streets and doorways.

I even spot Seraphina Blackthorne among them, one of The Seven from The Circle, her silver-streaked hair catching the light. More are gathering outside this house, trying to peer through the windows or through the open door.

Word is out that something is happening. Something big.

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