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Say out loud, Yar nîm cata’or.
Basil gritted his teeth even harder. And yet, his mouth opened of its own accord and he ground out, “Yar…nîm…”
A blast of white-hot magic lit up the dark of the temple like lightning. Calâr’s brutal grip on Basil’s mind snapped like a wire being cut.
“Don't you dare touch my son,” an unfamiliar male voice growled.
Jerking back, Basil withdrew his hands from the feet of the statue. Fae magic sparked in the air as a dark shape slammed Calâr to the ground and began a merciless butchery.
Behind the struggle between Calâr and his attacker, a witch rushed into the temple. Black hair swept up in a ponytail, clad from neck to toe in dark combat gear, Hazel scanned the room—and then her brown eyes locked onto Basil. “My baby…”
She scrambled up the dais, knelt beside him, her hands on his shoulders, his face, his chest, checking him for wounds. “Are you injured? Are you okay?”
Basil shook his head, struggled to get to his feet. “Isa. We need to help her.”
Hazel followed his gaze to the crumpled shape of the female who held his heart. Together they ran down the dais, crouched next to Isa’s body. Hazel spread her hands over Isa’s chest, and a glow emanated from her palms. Golden light flowed down into Isa. Hazel closed her eyes, frowned. Her lips parted. Her face fell.
The glow faded, she balled her hands to fists and let them fall at her sides.
“What are you doing?” Basil grabbed Hazel’s hands, pulled them back over Isa. “Heal her. Please.”
“Basil…”
“Mom, please.”
“Baz.” She cupped his face, shook her head, her eyes shimmering. “She’s gone.”
“No. Bring her back.”
“Sweetie, no one can bring back the dead. Not even witches.”
His breath burned in his lungs, heat prickled behind his eyes, and his stomach cramped. He heaved, but nothing came.
A crunch, a strangled scream, followed by sudden silence, and the sounds of struggle close to them abruptly ceased. The shadowy attacker who had launched himself at Calâr now rose from what remained of the male fae he had all but ripped to shreds. When he looked over his shoulder at them, the resemblance struck Basil like a blow to his guts. Uncanny, unsettling—undeniable in its implication.
Even if he hadn’t heard him yell something about my son earlier, Basil would have known. From the blond hair, its shade and nuance exactly like his own, to the facial features that were an eerie mirror image of Basil’s face, the family relation was indisputable.
Power poured off the demon like steam. His breath heavy, he stood there over the body of the slain fae and stared at Basil.
But Basil’s mind was too preoccupied with something else to even begin to acknowledge the emotional consequences of this. Calâr was dead. His threat to Basil eliminated.
I can unlock my powers.
His eyes flicked to Isa’s still form, then to the statue atop the dais.
He ran.
Breath coming in quick bursts, he scaled the slab stairs, slammed his hands at the feet of the statue. Eyes closed, he murmured, “Yar nîm cata’or.”
A blinding flash of light in his mind, a force that nearly made him stumble down the dais. His lungs seized, his muscles spasmed.
Sarômtanhâr.
The name whispered through his thoughts, burned itself into his soul—and unlocked a thousand seals within him. Magic blossomed in his cells, fused and merged and surged until it rolled into every last atom of his body, his mind. The hum he’d heard before grew to a deafening crescendo, in sync with the rising melody of the earth.
He gasped for air, half staggered, half slid down the dais, buzzing with a heady rush of power. With his eyes on Isa, he swayed forward.
Only to freeze in place, his muscles locking against his will.
