Magic Forged (Hall of Blood and Mercy #1)(2)

“Let go of me!”

“So you can run again? Nah.” He held his free hand out and gathered magic that flickered like fire in his palm. His wizard mark—which was distinctly spiky and more brown than black—appeared, slicing down his cheekbone and making a break toward his jawline.

Ho boy. This did not look good.

I kept my expression placid and didn’t fight him as I fidgeted, readjusting my stance so I faced him. “Isn’t this a little pathetic? It’s not like beating me up is going to give you any kind of bragging rights.”

Gideon held his palm so close to my face the hum of magic crackled in my ears. “It’s not about strength, it’s about asserting what should be obvious,” he said. “You shouldn’t be the Medeis Heir. You’re too weak. Your House will never be able to depend on you.”

“That’s House Medeis’s business, not yours.” I rested my weight on the leg closest to Gideon and drew the other back, lining my shot up.

He didn’t seem to notice. But I tried to cover my plan by sucking air in and snapping my fingers, pulling the tiny bit of magic I could channel from the air and pushing it through my blood and down to my fingers where I turned it into a tiny flame that I flicked at him.

Gideon scoffed as the flame hit his t-shirt and fizzled, easily put out with a firm snap of his shirt. “No,” he scoffed. “It’s all wizards’ business. Allowing one of the oldest wizarding Houses in the Midwest to be run by a wizard with your level of power makes us a laughingstock, and we’re already considered the weakest in our society.” He pointed to the tiny patch of blackened fabric for evidence of my weak powers—which was a birthday candle next to the glowing ball he held in his open palm.

The heat of my wizard mark—which I knew from staring in the mirror was a stark black and made of one lonely, pathetic loop under my right eye—slowly faded from my face as I let go of my magic. “Ahhh,” I said. “I understand now.”

Gideon squinted down at me and cocked his head in his confusion.

“It’s because you’re compensating,” I seriously added.

“Why you—” Gideon moved to mash his magic into my face—which would have at least given me third degree burns, if not worse. But I was ready. I smashed my foot into his kneecap, kicking as hard as I could.

Gideon’s leg buckled, and he tipped forward, off balance enough that I was able to rip my arm from his grasp and scramble backwards.

He took a swipe at me with his magic, but only touched a bit of my hair, singeing it.

I fled, the horrible smell of burnt hair trailing behind me as Gideon roared.

“You’re going to pay for that, Medeis!”

I didn’t even bother to see if he was following—his thundering footfalls chased after me as I darted across a grassy park.

Three ladies and their kids stood in the woodchips surrounding the park playground equipment, their mouths hanging open as they gazed at Gideon with wonder.

They had to be regular humans—no one else would look so awed.

A few of the kids shrieked and clapped in joy. “Wizards!”

I glanced back at Gideon—whose entire fist was now encased with magic.

He mustered a smile. “Training, it’s necessary,” he lied.

I snorted and jumped a park bench.

Even though supernaturals were “public”, and had been for almost two decades, we still weren’t supposed to flash our magic around. The last thing we wanted to do was frighten the humans, who greatly outnumbered all magical species and could potentially exterminate us if they felt threatened.

Apparently, our community’s leaders were overly concerned, though, given that none of the mothers or their kids seemed to feel “threatened” while watching a gorilla of a guy with a fistful of fire chase me in broad daylight.

When I reached the sidewalk on the opposite end of the park, Gideon chucked the fireball.

I tried to dodge it, but I wasn’t fast enough, and it hit me on the left shoulder. It sizzled, burning a hole in my clothes, and it was so hot it baked my skin. I bit down on a yelp—that would have made the sicko happy—and inhaled air in a sharp hiss between clenched teeth.

My shoulder throbbed, but if he caught me, it would only mean more pain. I limped across the street, picking up speed as I shook it off.

Unfortunately, my distraction with the pain—however short-lived—had given Gideon time to catch up with me.

He was almost on me as I sprinted up the block. I came to a four-way intersection and glanced up the road.

A motorcade of shiny black cars bore down the street, barreling closer. A fancy emblem was emblazoned on the sides of the front car—a limo—but the rest were all unmarked SUVs.

I saw the black dragon roaring at the center of the drawn emblem, and my heart stuttered.

The roaring dragon was something everyone in the Midwest feared—at least anyone with any sense of self-preservation.

But Gideon was less than half a block behind me. If I waited for the motorcade, he’d catch me, and if I ran around the block again he’d be on me pretty quick.

My shoulder ached, but although fear made my heart pound in my throat with enough force to strangle me, I darted across the street, narrowly missing being hit by the lead car.

Gideon skidded to a stop at the crosswalk as the lead car rumbled by, but when the SUV just behind it slowed to a crawl, he swore, turned on his heels, and ran back toward the park.