Page 78 of Spirit Storm

I take a step closer to the rune circle carved into the cave wall. The energy it gives off resonates within me, humming at a frequency that feels amazing. “I had a vision of The Nine in the Ireland chamber. They talked briefly about being able to repair the stones should one of them fail. They vowed to preserve that information by handing it down to their descendants.”

“And they did.” Khylie meets my gaze with a look of confusion. “Didn’t they?”

I shrug. “I knew nothing about being a Descendant of the Nine, and I certainly don’t possess any information or location of a lockstone. Freya has been researching and is devoted to learning more, but she’s only learned what she knows from research. I’m not sure about Henrik and his family, but he didn’t seem to know much more than us.”

“That’s why you stepping forward is so exciting,” Asher says, joining the conversation. “It seems your family has preserved the integrity of the information better than anyone else we’ve come across. So, we’re hoping you know how to repair what Tharuzel damaged."

I nod. “Yeah, if we could repair Ireland and Denmark, it would be incredible.”

Khylie chews her lip, thinking. "We know how to maintain and reinforce, but repairing the stone and spell from a point of destruction… I don’t think we do.”

Well, hell. That isn’t the answer I want to hear, but we’re still not out of this. “But you have a stone witch helping you, right?”

It's mostly a guess, but given what Mica said and how Khylie’s family have kept their lockstone in perfect working order for centuries…

"My older brother, Xavier." Khylie brightens. “He's incredible and knows as much or more than I do about the lockstone. He could definitely help."

Hope sparks. "Could we talk to him?"

"Absolutely. I'll text him to come over right now."

While Khylie pulls out her phone, I wander through the space, taking it all in: the journals, the relics, the sense that this place has been tended with care for centuries, the hum of power building in my cells...

"Tell us everything you know about the ritual, the lockstones, and anything you think might help us.”

Khylie finishes sending her text and launches into it. She starts with what she knows about The Nine, the spells they combined for the binding, and the way the lockstones work as anchor points for a banishing ward bigger than any other she knows of.

I’m with her on that. “Yeah, given that the two broken lockstones were in Ireland and Denmark, I was thinking the area of the banishment was Europe. I never expected there to be a lockstone here.”

“That’s a massive ward,” Wylder says. “How does it even hold?”

“Ley lines and anchor points,” Khylie says.

She speaks with the confidence of someone who's grown up with the stories, who's watched the reinforcing ritual, who understands this magic to the depth of her bones.

She’s the answer I’ve been hoping for. With her help, we might just get ahead of Tharuzel and fix this mess.

I listen, absorbing every word, cataloging information, and growing more excited by the minute.

Then something shifts…

I know the sensation and, as vile as it is, it’s undeniable. “Demons incoming!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Bahamian lockstone chamber explodes with the invasion of demons. They hemorrhage from all angles, all around us. They arrive, not through a door, but through the stone itself.

Tharuzel’s minions ooze out of the cracks like runny oil that solidifies mid-pour, limbs assembling at odd angles, clawed hands and fanged mouths slashing through the air. As quickly as one appears, another follows. Then, three more. Then, more after that.

"Protect the lockstone!" Khylie shouts.

The Life and Death Brigade are already in motion.

Clara throws both arms wide, and the sea water answers her. It surges forward in two roaring columns that slam two demons into the far wall hard enough to leave craters.

When they fall, the sluice of water washes over them and pulls them across the sand floor and back out to sea.

Rowan shouts from my left as a demon grabs her arm. Its inhuman fingers wrap around her wrist three times, like the rope of a whip. Its grip smokes as her skin blisters. “That fucking hurts, asshole.”