Page 26 of Reckless Witch

Earth. Check

Fire. Check.

Light. Check.

Peace. Check.

I close my eyes and am instantly surrounded by trees, blue skies as far as the eye can see, and tall, gently swaying meadow grass. I shift my attention skyward and close my eyes as the sun warms my face. This is one of my favorite places. I’ve come here since childhood. I release a breath, then pull the first Mandarin symbol up in memory.

Earth.

Solid. Grounding. My feet connect with the soil beneath me.

Fire.

Energy flares inside me, nearly breaking my concentration. I breathe deeply and ignore the commotion that accompanies the symbol. I can’t break the rhythm. To break rhythm while casting a spell is to open a door to chaos. All kinds of bad things happen when a witch halts before finishing a spell. I focus on the next symbol.

Light.

Purity, but also power. I wince as brilliant light penetrates my closed eyelids and try to block the roar in my ears. Quickly, I call up the next symbol.

Peace.

The roar in my ears dulls and breathing grows less strained. Inside me, the force kicks into a higher gear, like someone just switched the volume to high. Now, for the final symbol.

Mirror.

The memory resists.

Concentrate, Leilah.

Mirror.

For a split second, I’m cocooned in an orb of light. Perfect. That’s what I want in the dream.

The light surrounding me abruptly shatters with an ear-splitting crash. Light folds in on itself, sending bolts of energy back at me. I scream. The lightning jolts are a thousand tiny needles piercing my body.

This isn’t supposed to happen. This can’t happen.

A deep voice booms over the chaos. Pain doesn’t allow for distraction or concentration. He said something in Fae, I think.

The lightning vanishes, but the needle pricks still stab. I blink back tears and find myself curled in a ball on the floor, hair covering my face. Someone gently, carefully, pulls me to my feet.

“Rather irresponsible to cast that spell without full understanding of the magic. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Mack?”

I recognize that British accent. I snap my head up. Familiar deep blue eyes meet mine.

“Commander Tyrion,” Miss Mack breathes. “An unexpected pleasure, sir.”

I yank free of his grip.

“The pain will dissipate soon,” Blade says.

I stare. Did she say ‘Commander’? Blade Tyrion? The Fae commander who rallied others during that last stand to save Margidda?

The smolder in his eyes isn’t sensual, as it had been last night. He’s angry, but not at me.

“I didn’t think she could cast the spell, sir,” Miss Mack hurriedly explains. “It’s such an advanced spell. It’s like asking her to solve the Hodge conjecture. Who thought she’d get that far? I…”