Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(73)

But now, it came to roaring life, flapping leathery wings and exhaling controlled bouts of flame as it slouched its way toward Gareth. When it reached him, it unhinged its massive jaws—and the token flew right into its mouth, the dragon’s jagged maw snapping closed over it.

“From life to nothing,” it exhaled on a stream of smoke, bringing its nose close to Gareth’s face once the fire had died down. Its eyes glittered like faceted jewels, and the token shone, faintly and invitingly, through the gaps between its interlocking yellowed teeth.

Like the combatants had done with the hydra so many years before, Gareth would need to pry the token out of its mouth—but unlike then, this was a challenge of wit, not of strength. He wasn’t meant to be battling it.

By the time Talia and Rowan came barreling into the courtyard, Gareth had deduced what he had to do instead.

“What is the Disanimating Curse?” he called out triumphantly, a wide grin splitting his face as he lifted both hands to cast the spell that would turn the dragon back to inanimate—and allow Gareth to safely retrieve the token from its mouth.

Back in front of the castle, I clenched my fists with powerless fury; this was it, then. He was going to do it. Like always, like every damn time, the bastard was really going to win.

“Rowan,” Talia called out, lightning brewing in her eyes. “On my mark! Ready, set . . . NOW!”

Ectoplasm burst from her hands; a coil of writhing black, winding its way around Gareth like a shroud. Before he could react, a plume of Rowan’s raw magic, emerald green shading down to tender pink, twisted itself through the coil of ectoplasm, slipping into any negative space. For a moment, their life and death magics were intertwined in a floating ring, locked fist in fist like their alliance given shape.

This was it, I thought, with a rising spiral of wonder. They were really fucking doing it, just like we’d planned.

Then, with a shuddering roar like a sonic boom, their commingled magic turned into something else.





27





Anathema


Just like Talia and I had predicted, Avramov and Thorn magics were not intended to combine. Averse as they were to each other’s basic natures, they very much did not want to be woven into this unnatural wreath Rowan and Talia had made. But like all magic, these two raw filaments were still guided by their wielders’ will—and in this instance, their wills aligned. So the two inimical strains of magic did their best to accommodate them both, transforming into something new.

What encircled Gareth now looked like I’d always imagined dark matter might look: a ring of matte black far beyond simple darkness, much blacker and deeper than even Talia’s ectoplasm. Within its impenetrable folds, pinpricks of brilliant light glimmered like tiny stars. It held Gareth trapped within its center, caught helpless in its heart, canceling every spell he cast the moment it struck the barrier—every bit the antimagic forcefield Talia and I had imagined and hoped this commingled magic would become.

Back where I stood, beyond the castle’s walls, I heard Elena Avramov hiss in a sharp breath.

“They should not be doing this,” she said, such cold dread lining her low voice that I felt the first real inklings of fear myself. It occurred to me that at my urging, Rowan and Talia had done something without precedent . . . and that there might just be a very good reason something like this had never been attempted before.

Back in the courtyard, Gareth snarled in pure rage, the veins in his temples pounding like an impending aneurysm.

“Let . . . me . . . the fuck . . . out!” he bellowed, sending wild burst after burst of magic into the barrier—an uncontrolled barrage that would likely have brought the whole castle down on our heads, had the boundary not eaten it all up.

“Rowan, go,” Talia forced out, both hands raised and bent back at the wrists, glistening darkness flowing like ink out of her palms. “This one’s yours. If . . . if you hurry, I can hold it together by myself.”

“Hell no,” Rowan said, through gritted teeth. “I can do both. No damn way I’m letting you do this alone.”

A flood of green pouring from one hand, he extended the other toward the dragon, lips forming the words of the Disanimating Curse. Sweat pearled in beads on his forehead as he fought through the spell, all the cords in his neck standing out with effort. Though all the families could animate to some degree—which meant the Animation Charm and its opposite were among the first spells baby witches learned—this was a harder spell than the other two had been, as befitted the crowning obstacle. And Rowan was casting it while he held up his end of the antimagic barrier, already a massive exertion in itself.

“You can’t finish it like this, Rowan,” Talia grunted, watching him struggle, her own face frighteningly pale. “Stop being a stubborn ass and just let go.”

Rowan threw a glance over his shoulder at Gareth, who was still loosing spells left and right, shrieking with fury as each burst evanesced as soon as it struck the ring.

“He’ll hurt you,” Rowan said through clenched teeth, echoing my own fear. “Talia, it’s not worth—”

“He won’t. Just. GO.”

She said the last with such forceful conviction that it rattled something loose in him. With a reluctant nod, Rowan let his part of the antimagic spell lapse—and with much more power abruptly available to him, he also managed to tie off the Disanimating Curse, turning the dragon from scaled, sinuous flesh to gaudily painted wood and plaster in a breath.