Page 90 of Discovered Magic
Replaying her father’s instructions, she focused her power, dialing in to mere minutes before.
But the unexpected happened.
Draven and Castor were thrown out the door as the floor opened up, creating a vortex neither she, Morcant, nor the Hastings could escape from.
The force with which Alexander landed against the corral fence dislocated his shoulder. Before he could gather his wits, the cabin folded in on itself, sucked into a massive sinkhole.
He scrambled forward, ignoring his pain and intending to do whatever it took to save Abbie. Right as he reached the edge, the earth compacted upon itself, filling the opening.
“Abbie!” he shouted, stupidly, as if calling her name would reverse the situation.
Draven’s horrified expression said it all.
Somewhere, under mounds of dirt, Alex’s daughter—if alive—was fighting for her life!
His angst traveled through the tanzanite link, and Wilder’s frantic voice rang through his mind.
“What’s happening, Castor?”
But the shock was too great, and he couldn’t respond. He’d foolishly instructed his daughter, an untried witch, to travel in a way it had taken him years to learn, and he had no power to rectify his mistake.
Shell-shocked, he sat frozen.
“Castor! Tell me! Where’s Abbie?”
The buzz of conversation came and went, but his mind was numb to anything but grief and failure.
And then, miraculously, Wilder was there, digging through the fresh mound, with all the passion of a starving mongrel searching for a juicy bone.
Alex should tell him not to waste his time, that it would require magic, not manpower, to get her out, if she’d survived the crushing weight of the collapse at all. Yet he couldn’t.
Instead, he appealed to Draven.
“You’ll eventually accept your role as Guardian, Masters,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know the specifics, but I know you will. Please, do it right now. Do it for Abbie.”
“I can’t,” Draven whispered his torment. “I can’t, not even for her.”
“You can at least help part the earth and get her out!”
But he shook his head in defeat.
Wilder’s scream was so long and guttural, birds flew from nearby shrubbery. His second cry shook the ground, and the rumble caused the horses to bolt. They tore through the far side of the corral. Lightning struck with his third, and his fourth parted the earth beneath him.
Alex had never seen anything like it.
It was as if Wilder was pulling magic from nature, absorbing the power for his own.
And then the cold reality hit him.
If a regular witch could, Alex, a direct descendant of Zeus, could do the same.
“Gods of this earth related to me,
Lend me your gifts in my time of need,
Give to me now what will one day be mine,
Here, now, this place, this timeline.”
