No,I snarl.
The spell stumbles.
Outside, one anchor flares too hot. A caster missteps; backlash scalds, and he drops to one knee with a strangled curse.
One down.
I yank harder—not to break the magic, but to bend it. Their power floods in; I redirect it, feeding some into my wards, spinning the rest into tight, useless loops.
The chant falters, then steadies as someone barks at them to hold.
Air trembles in my hall; plaster dust drifts from the ceiling. A crack races down the staircase wall, splitting the paint.
The strain is unbearable—my magic stretched to breaking. Another anchor goes unstable; a witch gasps as power whiplashes up her arm, scorching along her channels, and her knees hit the tarmac.
Two.
I stop resisting the circle head-on and begin feeding its power back into itself. Each time they shove, I twist their spell a fraction, forcing them to bear their own weight. The circle’s light gutters, flares, then gutters again; white fire along my walls flickers, paling to grey.
I press the advantage.
Outside, boots scuff. A third mage buckles, retching onto the tarmac; another’s voice cracks mid-chant.
Just a little more.
One wizard collapses outright, the wards around his anchor winking out. A witch slumps against a car, spent. Another mage drops into a sprawl, chest heaving.
The ring of power around the house flickers, loses its shape, and begins to unravel.
Grey runes in my hallway crumble into harmless sparks; the hum settles into ringing silence.
The circle dims.
“We might actually win this!” Fred cries.
The Magic Hunter steps forward into what was once my beloved garden.
Lander Kane spreads his hands, raises his wand and unleashes raw power into the failing spell.
I feel that same sickclickas before, and the magic tries to draw our power together, to mesh us into one, before the ritual forces it apart again.
The circle surges and reforms into a blazing pentagram.
I scream as the bay window fractures, and all my windows explode in a hail of glass. Shards rain through empty rooms, bouncing off floorboards. I draw every reserve inward, sacrificing parts of me to keep myself functioning for just a little longer and to thicken the core wards, yet the strain is unbearable.
The Magic Hunter is ripping me apart with that impossible power of his. Pieces of me tear away—little fragments of soul scattering like torn paper in a storm. Tiles slide from my roof. My wards scream, shredding around me.
“House, I’m killing you,” Fred murmurs. “Our being here is killing you. It’s my turn to protect you. Fold, move. Go now. You need to save yourself.”
No. I will not leave you.
“I love you. I will find you. Thank you for being my friend.”
She flings the door wide and, with Baylor, charges into the pentagram.
Fred, what are you doing? You will be killed.I cry out in horror as the spell scorches her skin. Baylor, having no magic, is spared.
Roof tiles crash around them.
