Page 12 of Runaway Magic
The world spun in lazy circles as Cym fought to regain his equilibrium. Cym blinked rapidly until he could focus, fighting for enough cognitive function to be able to take stock of his situation.
The first thing he noticed was Fourteen, wrapped tightly around his body but unmoving. Fourteen’s hand cradled the back of Cym’s head and was pressing Cym’s face into his chest.
Bracing his arms against Fourteen’s chest, Cym levered himself back as far as the soldier’s grip would allow. It wasn’t far. The muscles Cym had so desperately been trying not to ogle weren’t just for show.
Why wasn’t Fourteen moving? Was he okay? Cym wiggled and squirmed until he was able to snake a hand up far enough between them to reach up until he could check the man’s pulse. It was strong, if slower than the situation warranted.
There was a lot more wiggling and shifting involved, but eventually, Cym was able to angle his head enough to see Fourteen’s face. Fourteen’s eyes were open but unfocused and had a dreamy quality to them. Gods, he hoped Fourteen didn’t have a concussion. Cym had zero experience with first aid.
He brushed his fingertips along one of Fourteen’s cheekbones, in a silent apology for not knowing how to help. Then he fought his way free from the man’s embrace as gently as he could. Strong arms resisted his efforts, but eventually, Cym managed to squirm free.
Once he extracted himself, Cym poked his head around the headstone to see if he could figure out what had happened.
The tree that held his bag had been split right down the middle. White flower petals were drifting slowly in the air as if confused by their early release from the tree.
There was no one in sight, but that meant nothing. Cym could have someone standing right beside him hidden by magic, and he’d never know because he’d never been trained to use his magic.
Cym was probably safe from physical attacks though. If his family had found him and had blown up that tree, they wouldn’t want to come anywhere near Cym. They’d just pick him off from afar. That meant he didn’t need to worry about invisible assassins.
That didn’t mean Cym wasn’t close to shitting himself when he sensed movement at his back. He jerked around to see Fourteen trying to haul himself into a sitting position but failing miserably. The man moved like his body was unfamiliar to him, and he hadn’t learned how to use it yet. Fourteen reached a hand out to brace himself only to have it collapse under his weight and send him sprawling to the ground.
Cym crawled over to him and ran shaky hands along Fourteen’s scalp, looking for bumps or blood, but he found nothing. When a headstone three yards to his right imploded with a sharp pop, Cym knew he had to focus on their attacker first and deal with Fourteen’s condition later.
What could he do? Before now, he’d bolted like a bunny every time his family found him, but that option was gone. The gods only knew what would happen to Fourteen if Cym left him behind, and it was his fault Fourteen was there in the first place. There was no running away from this.
Another headstone burst into unholy green flames three yards to his left. Cym could feel the blistering heat on his face and thanked the gods that whoever was blasting them with spells had such lousy aim. They would eventually get luckythough, even if their aim did suck, so Cym had to do something before he and Fourteen got blown to smithereens.
“Astin?” Cym called out, trying to use his big boy voice instead of hisI’d rather be buried in ten weighted blankets and eating cake than doing thisvoice. He was pretty confident he managed to land in between the two and give off anI will get through this and then go home, put on my shark slippers, and look at shirtless pictures of Henry Cavillvibe.
Astin would understand. Cym didn’t remember his cousin very well, but he hadn’t been a monster when they were young. Just a massive asshole. If Cym could just talk to his cousin, and explain about Fourteen, he might be able to convince his cousin to let the man go.
“Astin isn’t here, Boy. Your champion blew a chunk of his hand off,” a tinkling voice that had always reminded him of fairy bells informed him. “His chest isn’t looking so great either, you little shit.”
Goddamit. His cousin Helen had always been completely horrible. There was zero reasoning with her when they were little, and it didn't sound like she’d improved over the years at all.
“Are you trying to make me feel guilty, Hel? I don’t remember you being stupid, but things are bound to change after eleven years. Astin was trying to kill us. What did you expect us to do, weave him a gift basket?” Since diplomacy wasn’t going to work, he might as well be a catty bitch. There had to be some perks from being the family monster, after all.
“Keep talking, Boy. It’s only a matter of time before we find a way around your shield.” Another voice came from beside his cousin Helen. This one had changed more over the years than Helen’s had, but he recognized him anyway. He wasn’t likely to forget his brother Sterling.
Ow. Even Sterling was after him? Cute, chubby-cheeked Sterling, who had spent their childhood clinging to his leg and loving him with every inch of his tiny soul, hated Cym too? He shouldn’t be surprised, but dammit. Knowing his baby brother was part of Team Kill the Family Freak fucking hurt.
But Cym couldn’t fall into that pit right now. He had a norm to protect. Cym could fall apart later when Fourteen was safe.
Cym kept his head down as low as he could, trying to lay eyes on his family. Sterling and Helen were too young to be powerful enough to hide themselves with magic. Out of everyone in their generation, Astin alone had the age and the training to do such advanced magic.
Cym finally spotted them by the fence. Helen—the spitting image of Cym if he were a girl—was pacing back and forth in clear agitation, but his brother appeared completely at ease. Sterling stood balanced on the old, wrought-iron fence, looking more like a teenage boy trying to impress his girlfriend than one trying to kill his older brother. His mouse-brown hair looked effortless and windswept, but Cym recognized the hairstyle from a teen magazine he’d read a few months earlier.
Had it belonged to Sterling before it came to Cym?
Looking closer, Cym noticed his brother making a circle with the index finger of his right hand, then flattening the hand and pushing it out, as if he were stopping traffic. All the grass died around him in a giant circle, but where he and Fourteen crouched, the plants were unaffected.
“I don’t have a shield.” Though, improbable as it seemed, Cym was beginning to suspect this was untrue.
“You’re so funny, Sunny.” A third voice rang out to his left, and he saw his aunt Stella saunter down the sidewalk to join Sterling and Helen. Stella’s red dress flared out behind her like a banner and should have looked overly dramatic, but it fit with the long, mahogany hair curling around her shoulders.
Stella had always looked like a movie star to Cym.
The old nickname echoed inside his head, drawing out memories of better times, memories of laughter, ice cream, and splashing by a river. His heart clenched, and a tear fell down his cheek, but there was anger, not sadness in his voice when Cym called out, “You have no right to call me that anymore.”
