Crystal Storm (Falling Kingdoms #5)(112)

Kyan eyed the remaining two wisps of magic with anger in his stolen brown eyes. “Little queen, I need you now. I need blood descended from a sorceress—your blood. The magic from it will be enough for now. Later, I’ll find another obedient Oldling to seal all that’s been done here.”

He was right next to Cleo, holding Selia’s dagger. “I will give you your throne. All of Mytica. All of this world and beyond. Anything you desire.”

Tears mixed with the streaming rain on Cleo’s face. “Give the dagger to me.”

He did as she asked, and she looked at the dagger in her hand, knowing she had to do this. Knowing there was no choice.

Kyan could not leave here today, no matter whose body he had stolen. But just as she raised the dagger to thrust the blade into Nic’s heart, Ashur caught her wrist.

She stared up at him as the rain came down in torrents upon them.

“No,” he said. The single word held no room for argument. He squeezed her wrist until she gasped with pain and dropped the weapon.

When she turned back to face Kyan, he slapped Cleo so hard she spun backward, hitting the wall of the pit.

“You disappoint me, little queen,” he snarled.

Magnus, she thought with panic. Now would be a perfect time for you to save the day.

The walls of the pit began to crumble inward. The blue and white swirls of magic—the water and air gods—continued to spiral around the pit.

“Brother, we have a problem,” Olivia, now possessed by the earth Kindred, growled. “The others are ready, and time is running out. How do we finish the ritual without a witch to help us?”

As if in reply, the white wisp of magic shot toward its chosen host and disappeared into Taran’s chest. He gasped and fell to his knees.

Before Cleo could say a word, cry out, or stagger away from the rebel, the blue wisp was right in front of her.

It felt as if she had been hit by a thirty-foot wave, knocking her backward and choking her on its salt water.

The water Kindred had chosen her as its vessel.

Cleo stared upward at the stormy sky, the rain falling upon her as she fought to retain control over her body. She knew she couldn’t weaken now, but how was she supposed to fight against a god?

“We will return to fix this,” Kyan roared with anger before he turned into a column of flame and shot out of the pit. Olivia, casting a hateful glare at Cleo, crumbled as if made from dirt and disappeared into the ground.

Taran was at Cleo’s side, helping her to sit up.

She stared at him, confused. “Taran . . .”

“Are you still you?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he shook her roughly. “Answer me. Are you still you?”

She managed to nod. “I—I’m still me.”

“So am I.” Taran frowned and held out his right hand. A simple spiral—the mark of air magic—was on his palm, as if branded there.

Cleo looked down at her left palm to see the two parallel wavy lines that created the water symbol.

“The witch was killed before she could make it permanent with us,” she said. “We have the elemental magic inside of us, but we haven’t lost our minds or our souls.”

He searched her face, his brows knitting together. “Do you really think so?”

She shook her head, her mind a jumble of confusion. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything for sure right now.”

Cleo searched for Magnus again, peering up at the edge of the pit and hoping he would suddenly appear. When he didn’t, she held her hand out to Taran. “Help me up.”

Taran did as she asked. “What happens now?”

The rain still poured down on them. New guards arrived and stared down at the group at the bottom of the pit.

“Empress?” one asked tentatively.

Amara tore her shocked gaze from Cleo, a deep frown creasing her forehead, and looked up at the men. “Get us out of here.”

The guards brought a ladder that sank into the mud at the bottom of the pit. One by one, the group silently exited. With her broken leg, Amara required two guards to physically assist her.

“Kyan wanted everyone’s blood to spill,” Amara said at the top, her tone void of any discernable emotion. “That, with the witch’s magic, would have made the ritual permanent.”

“And you agreed to that—to killing us all,” Felix said, his hands fisted. “Why am I not surprised?”

Amara flinched. “It didn’t happen, did it?”

“No thanks to you,” he said, scowling. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you pay for what you did here today.”

“So, what does it mean?” Nerissa asked. Enzo stood protectively beside her, his hand at her waist. “None of what the witch did is permanent? Not even with Nic and Olivia?”

Amara shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“You stopped me,” Cleo said to Ashur, who hadn’t said a word since they’d exited the pit.

“You were going to stab Nicolo. I couldn’t allow that.”

“He’s lost,” her voice broke. “He’s gone.”

“Do you know that for sure?” His expression hardened. “I don’t. And if there’s a way, I will bring him back to us. Do you hear me?”

All she could do was nod, hoping desperately that he might be right.