Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(23)
Lightning struck, struck, struck, three times close by. I fell to my knees as I entered the Gray Between and my time-altering magic leaped and stretched. Outside, the sound of the rain deepened, its descent slowed to nothing. I didn’t know what was happening to me, but it couldn’t be good. I looked down at myself to see that my skin was shining in a pale, weird pattern, like heat lightning flashing across my skin. Then the place where my magic originated snapped back and time returned to normal. I fell flat, my skin tingling and burning. I felt sick to my stomach and figured I was already bleeding internally from bubbling time. Using that part of my gift was life-threatening and not something I wanted to happen all by itself.
Brute padded down the stairs and moved close to me, snuffing. Then he shifted his body at an angle, blocking my way or . . . making himself a support. That. I put my hands on his back and pushed partway to my feet. His fur was warm and dry and—
Lightning struck again, a flashing, booming explosion of light and sound. Close. The Gray Between skittered through me, lightning fast. Brute leaped away, yelping. I fell again, landing on my backside. “Sorry,” I whispered. “Something’s wrong.” He dipped his big head once and chuffed in agreement, his body a massive brightness in the dark. My own skin was glowing through my clothing in lightning patterns up and down my legs and arms. I lifted my shirt to see them on my belly too, though less bright there. I blinked against the light, and the glow faded to normal skin.
Though there was a pause in the lightning, Brute stayed far back as I made it to my feet, staggered to my room, and opened the closet. Because I don’t believe in coincidence. The Mercy Blade, once a storm god, in my closet in the middle of a late season tropical storm still gathering strength outside. Shaking, I gripped the jamb on both sides and rose to my toes. On the top shelf was the witchy item that everyone wanted, a wreath made of metal, neither silver nor gold, but something in between that looked like a peculiar mixture of hues, maybe white and yellow gold mixed together. The upper part of the circlet was carved or shaped in ascending points in what Alex thought might be laurel leaves, with the base carved or incised with markings that could either be decorative or some unknown early language, triangles and circles and squares and lines in no particular order. There were no stones or other ornamentation.
Le breloque in French, la corona in Latin, the crown was plain by comparison to crowns I’d seen in movies and on the Internet. The wreath was similar to ones the ancient Romans and Greeks used to indicate royalty. But this one was magic. A pale haze of power was glowing in my skinwalker sight. I could smell the energies wafting from it like ozone from a power plant.
The wreath, like the other magical trinkets in the closet, was under a hedge of thorns ward created by Molly. She was part of the Everhart witch bloodline and was married to Evan Trueblood, one of the strongest male witches alive today. Before Molly and her hubs had left NOLA after the witch conclave, she had recharged all my little-to-never-used toys and the ward that protected them from anyone but me. They had once been in a safe-deposit box, but I had a feeling that Leo had access to them there, and I had brought them all home, securing them under magic.
Including the thing I called the Glob. It was a weapon. Or I was pretty sure it was. It had started out as a black-magic, blood-magic artifact called the blood diamond, a spelled gem empowered by the sacrifice of hundreds of witch children over hundreds of years. It had once been evil, but things had changed. The diamond had changed. Now it was a brilliant white diamond, the stone itself transformed through magical means, when it was placed in close contact with a sliver of the Blood Cross, with iron discs from the spikes that had pierced the feet of the three men killed on Golgotha, and with my blood. I had been struck by lightning while holding it. An angel and a demon had fought over it. They had maybe fought over me too. Not sure who was winning that one. Now it was the Glob, a diamond/silver/iron thingamajig doohickey. And I had no idea what it could do.
Lightning cracked nearby again, the light blinding, reflecting bright off the pale painted walls. My skin glowed in the new odd patterns as the Gray Between opened. Outside of time, the wreath sparked. A bright white flash, brighter than the lightning, with the incised symbols darker, a purple color, like amethyst. In the silver energies of the Gray Between, with time stopped and bubbled, the wreath writhed like a brilliant snake, or like a vine caught in a thrashing wind, pulling in power from the air as if eating it.
It was absorbing power from the lightning.
An internal shudder raced along my spine at the sight of le breloque kindled by lightning. Sparking with power, power that was unclaimed. Unclaimed. It was in my possession, but its magic was still unclaimed. I knew, without knowing how, that the unclaimed part was important. In the moment outside of time, the lightning began to dim. Time resumed with a crash of the downpour, leaving the world storm-dark and the scent of ozone in the air.
Eli, Ed, and Gee had been with me when I acquired the wreath, and I was pretty sure that Edmund knew what le breloque was, but he had never admitted to it. We had first seen it in the dark of night in a rainstorm. Like this one, though not so electric. And now the wreath was acting up. And so was my own magic. “Crap,” I whispered to Brute, who was standing beside my leg. “There’re connected somehow.” He didn’t respond except to flop to the floor with a thud.
I closed the closet door and settled to my bed, pulling the covers over me, and Bruiser’s boxing gloves close for the comfort. I breathed in his scent, the scent he’d worn before he was Onorio.