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Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a quick, deep breath, centering her magic. Then she picked up the dagger. Juneau groaned, coming to.
Oh, no, you don’t.
Remembering the description of blood rituals—though the details had been more vague than she liked—she murmured the lines she’d been able to find, infusing the words with intention.
“Power in blood, life in death,
A life’s force taken, a stolen breath,
Blood for power, death for life,
Shall be released with this knife.”
Gritting her teeth, she brought the dagger down onto Juneau just as the old witch opened her eyes, magic glowing in their depths. The blade rammed into Juneau’s chest, the impact reverberating up Hazel’s wrist, arm, shoulder. Nausea spiked in her stomach at the sensation of the dagger sliding off something hard, probably a rib.
Juneau cried out and spasmed.
Once more, Hazel chanted the words, yanking the knife out of Juneau, only to stab her again. Over and over, she sliced and struck, the lines rolling off her tongue in a dark, primal rhythm, developing a life of their own. Her magic flickered, groaned, and wept.
Wrong. It felt so wrong.
Tears streaming down her face, she forced herself to focus, to keep the intention behind the words. Through the sluggish flow of foul energy twisting her magic, she concentrated on the endgame—destroy the sigil, destroy the spell.
Save Tallak.
She pictured him living, pictured him holding her in his arms.
She imagined Lily, smiling as she hugged her.
She thought of Merle and Rhun, of their newborn baby, sleeping peacefully as they held her.
Save.
With a sob, she stabbed Juneau one last time, the light leaving the witch’s eyes.
The power that charged the air, pressing against her senses with the force of a stalled gale, released on the sound of a giant beast sucking in a breath. The circle exploded.
Hurled back by the shock wave, Hazel flew through the air and crashed down hard on the ground. Her breath left her in a whoosh, knocked out of her by the impact. Pain flared in her back.
Her ears rang, a high-pitched sound filling her head. She blinked into the darkness. The candles were out. No light in the arena.
“Tallak?” She coughed, then cleared her throat. “Tallak!”
Heaving herself up to sitting, more pain spiking in her back and her hips, she frantically looked around. Pitch-black greeted her eyes. Please, she begged. Please let him be alive.
Panic beating underneath her skin, she stumbled to her feet, her sense of balance off in the complete darkness.
“Tallak!” she cried out, fear raking cold claws over her heart.
Twin lights blinked in the dark, amber fire among velvet black.
Then he was there, right in front of her, alive and warm and breathing, his energy vibrating against her skin, his arms crushing her to his chest.
“I’m here,” he croaked.
Her heart lurched and her breath caught. She clutched on to him, her hands roving over his chest, his shoulders, his neck, touching his face, his lips. He was there, all there.
Relief was a flood sweeping through her.
