Page 12 of The Tracker's Rage
Rosalina staggered into Damien’s arms, crossing paths with Blake, who rushed to Jenson’s side and whirled around, threateningly.
“Now get the fuck out of my house,” Damien snarled as he stepped protectively in front of Rosalina and raised his hands toward the home invaders.
Jenson crouched and raised his hands, too. Blake lowered his head and growled.
“If I were you,” Damien said, a crooked smirk tipping his lips. “I would run.” His gaze flicked to me for a moment, full of concern and caution for only an instant, then he continued. “You’re too green, Jenson. When did you become a Copper Mage? Yesterday? Very unwise to try to test your newly acquired powers against someone like me. I know things you can only dream of.” Flames appeared at the tips of his fingers, growing long and short, dancing in a tantalizing way. “I don’t want to fight. I like my home very much and would rather avoid the destruction, but if you push it, I will turn you into a lump of charcoal.”
Jenson licked his lips and closed his hands into fists to hide their slight trembling. Next to him, Blake bared his teeth and growled, ready for any amount of destruction.
“Let’s go, Blake. We’ve done what we came to do,” Jenson said, smiling with glee.
The wolf raked his claws over the hardwood floor, gouging deep grooves in its surface as they retreated toward the front door.
“This isn’t over, Ward,” Jenson said, then they turned tail and ran.
Damien stood silent for a few beats. At last, he stomped toward the door, cursing. He slammed it shut, laid his hands on it, and muttered something under his breath.
“That cocky rooster shouldn’t have been able to get through my protective spells.” He paced along the door, tapping his temple, then faced it again and muttered something else as he sent another spell from his fingers. The magic hit the door at its center and spread outward, glowing and crackling, reaching toward the rest of the house, its tendrils crawling over the walls and floors until it sealed with a pop in the center of the ceiling.
When he was done, he turned to face us, his copper eyes assessing the situation. He pointed at Rosalina. “You all right?”
She was hugging herself, sweat plastering black hair to her cheeks, fear and shock giving her features a wild edge.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice firm. “Help Toni.”
Damien nodded once and walked in my direction, his leather shoes tapping against the floor. He knelt next to me and put a hand on top of my head. He closed his eyes, letting his fingers trail down my spine. Tingling heat met my skin wherever he touched. The pain slowly dimmed to a dull ache, and I felt my broken bones align to their correct positions, and my ear knit itself.
I exhaled, my body settling with abandon on the cold marble steps.
Damien removed his cloak and draped it over me. It was incredibly warm like the heated blanket Nonna used during cold New York winters.
“Shift,” the mage said. “It’ll speed up the healing process if you go back and forth a few times.”
I did as I was told. The first shift was painful and awkward, seeming to happen in stages and leaving me with a tail sticking out of my bottom for far longer than it was comfortable. The next couple of shifts were smoother, happening seconds apart from each other. Then the pain was gone, and I felt right as rain.
Clutching the cloak close to my body, I got to my feet, amazed at how great I felt, especially considering that death had seemed like a distinct possibility just moments ago. The idea of that bed with a hole in the middle had seemed very real for a moment, but thank God for mages and amazing healing skills.
Damien scanned me up and down as if to make sure his work was done, then he rushed down the steps and through the corridor to the right of the staircase. There was an edge of panic in his movements, a sort of desperation and tired resignation.
Rosalina and I exchanged a curious glance, then went after him. We found him in an ample workroom that looked a lot like my potions alcove except on a grander scale. There were several worktables and a large armoire with carved doors and metal handles, their surfaces littered with glassware: pipettes, beakers, tubes, and funnels.
The mage stood in front of a large table, his hands splayed on its top, his head lowered in defeat. A mixture of strong scents rode the air and hit me as soon as I walked in. Broken glass peppered the floor, its contents scattered and trampled. A couple of tables were tipped over, sticky liquid slowly spreading into large puddles beneath them.
I held my breath as a sharp scent seemed to pierce my nostrils like long needles. Rosalina coughed and pressed a hand over her nose and mouth.
“Bastards,” Damien said. “Bastards!” He whirled and faced us, his blotchy pupils large and bottomless.
Was he referring to us? I glanced warily in Rosalina’s direction. Was he going to take his anger out on us?
“Uh, when we got here, the door was open,” I said in one quick breath to make sure he understood what had happened here. “We have nothing to do with this destruction.”
“I know that.” He looked at me as if I were stupid. “The house told me everything as I walked in.”
Huh? His house talks to him? Um, cool.
He glowered at me. “Still, in a way, it is your fault.”
“Our fault?!” Rosalina exclaimed.
