Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(40)
“How cold is it now?” I asked Gareth a few moments later, squinting through the fog as I peered at the coin. It sat in a prim little circle of bare stone, the encroaching scrim of ice unable to so much as touch it. A small, dense ball of dread began to form in the pit of my stomach; the boulder might have been an obvious fool’s errand, but a temperature drop like this should at least have been able to faze the coin.
“I b-believe the m-most offensive take would be, ‘as a w-witch’s tits,’?” my brother replied tersely, through chattering teeth. This spell was wearing on him, even though during last year’s Gauntlet of the Grove, he’d summoned up entire glaciers from Lady’s Lake without seeming to break a sweat. So that gave me some indication of just how unearthly a cold he was channeling. “P-pardon my French. Or, outer-space cold. Cold as fuck. T-take your pick.”
“Can you go any colder?” I urged, still glaring furiously at the goddess-damned coin, as if I could will that tauntingly untouched protective circle into diminishing. How could a coin look like it was flipping you the bird just by sitting there? I’d never seen an object with quite so much attitude.
“N-not safely,” Gareth gasped, his voice so hoarse my gaze snapped to him—his lips were blue, and a clammy sheen of sweat stood out on his brow, despite the heat his own Cell-provided shield was surely lending him. That would go only so far, though, when it was his body being used as a temporary conduit for this cold. “S-sorry, N-N-Nina. This—far as I can go.”
I hissed in frustration, feeling like a monumental asshole even as he released the frost spell and the Cell began inching back toward a more normal, human-friendly temperature.
“No, Gare,” I said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder when the heat shields finally winked out around both of us, the last of that swathing white fog melting away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push too hard. You’re—I know you’re doing me a solid here.”
He threw me a faintly disgusted look, like, duh, even as he wiped the chill sweat from his temples. “In this together, remember? I’m only doing it because you’d probably blow both of us into smithereens if you tried to cast even a starter-pack spell. You’re like a magical nuclear reactor right now, and kind of a helpless kitten at the same time. Can you imagine how awesome it is for me, being the responsible, capable one for once?”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “I’m glad you’re finding your joy here, brother. Really love that for you.”
He flashed a smile at me over his shoulder, the rakish grin I knew had an entirely different effect on people not blood-related to him. “I realize you’re being a dick, but I know such trifles as my happiness actually do matter to you, sis. Kind of a rarity, in this family.”
He turned away before I could even fully register the gut punch of that sentiment, and the fact that he clearly meant it.
“So, what do you think, time to try killing it with fire?” he asked, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he shifted his gaze back to the coin. “You know I’m up for that.”
I nodded, chewing on the inside of my cheek as emotion prickled in my nose. There’d be time to talk to Gareth about what he’d said later—if either of us could bring ourselves to do it. Admitting and navigating emotional vulnerability wasn’t exactly a prized Blackmoore family skill; what little I knew of it myself had emerged out of my friendship with Jessa, and many, many painful sessions with Sassy Sue. And it was still far from one of my favorite activities.
“Let’s do it,” I said instead, pressing my lips together. “Maybe Gofannon’s Blaze?”
The Welsh metalsmith god’s fire was the most powerful incendiary charm in the elementalist workings contained in the Grimoire, and, unlike Uriel’s flame, indiscriminately destructive. If it couldn’t melt this stubborn little fucker of a coin, then nothing would.
The nugget of dread shifted nauseatingly in my stomach, because what if this didn’t work? Did that mean I’d be stuck with this spell for the foreseeable future—maybe even forever? The idea that my magic might become permanently unstable, a volatile element I wasn’t allowed to access if I wanted to keep the people around me safe, made me want to double over and retch.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Gareth said, licking his lips. He lifted his arms, fists clenched in front of him, wrists up. Slowly, he swept them in ever-widening circular motions, speaking the Welsh incantation first under his breath and then aloud, the unfamiliar words gaining force and cadence until they rose into a yell—a powerful, commanding bellow that carried with it the tolling timbre of my brother’s own considerable will.
Then Gareth opened his fists, and pure, brilliant fire bloomed out of them.
Twin gouts of it gushed from his palms; an inferno of liquid gold and orange, veined with scarlet strains. The streams converged halfway between Gareth and where the coin sat on the floor, ten feet away from us. At that midway point, they braided together into a single entwined stream, a blinding jet of flame that struck the coin head-on.
And it did strike—I could see the coin skid slightly to the left as Gofannon’s Blaze met it, though it moved much less than something so small should have beneath such a pummel of force. Still, even that slight judder gave me a bright, dizzying rush of hope; so it was possible to impact the coin, then.
As soon as the contact was made, the temperature of the entire room ratcheted up, enough to trigger the Cell’s shields back into place around us, this time to preserve pockets of cool air around our bodies. I could see the coin heating, turning a dangerously hot white where it ate all that concentrated flame. But its edges didn’t soften, didn’t even begin to lose shape. If anything, the scorching white only made the octagram glow more brightly defined, honed the exquisite lines of that cameo profile of the goddess’s face.