“You suggest an acceptable scenario, mortal,” he said, stroking his seaweed-green beard. “I have not fought a true dragon on open ground since before the magic vanished. To do so again would be…pleasing.” He breathed deep, savoring the idea. “Most pleasing.”
“Then it’s settled,” Marci said, trying not to sound as relieved as she felt. “Just give me a week, and—”
“You will have one day.”
Marci gaped at him. “One?How in the world—”
“Tomorrow night,” he continued, talking right over her. “At sunset, in the open fields that mark the edge of the Lady’s lands. I can think of no better place for challenge.”
Marci could think of plenty, but one day was better than nothing. If she told Julius tonight, they could be on a plane anywhere in the world by tomorrow morning, and then all of this would be just a bad memory. “Sounds like a plan,” she said, looking at the mage and spreading her arms as much as the restraints allowed. “Bind away.”
The woman looked at her like she was crazy, but Vann Jeger nodded sharply. “Do it,” he ordered. “A Sword of Damocles on her neck, marked for sunset tomorrow.”
The mage nodded and started forward. Marci, however, lurched like she’d just gotten kicked in the teeth.
“Awhat?” she cried, yanking against the straps. “No, no,no!We had a deal! You were going tobindme, notkillme!”
The dragon hunter laughed, a horrible, deep-water sound. “Foolish mortal. Did you really think I’d agree to a curse you could break?”
Marci stared at him in horror, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized Vann Jeger had played her even as she tried to play him. Technically, the Sword of Damocleswasa binding curse: a spell that would bind her to a place and a promise. In this case, the DFZ and her pledge to bring the dragon to a place of the spirit’s choosing at sunset tomorrow. Unlike every other binding curse, though, the Sword of Damocles required the cursed party’s full participation. It was designed to be the ultimate vow: an oath made in good faith, written in magic on the victim’s skin. If you were true to your word, nothing would happen, but if you broke your promise, the sword would fall wherever the spell was written. By writing the curse on her neck, Vann Jeger was ensuring that Marci would lose her head if she didn’t deliver.
That left her even worse off than she’d been when this started, but what could she do? Accuse the spirit of taking away her chance to cheat? She’d already told him she’d get the dragon. Backing out now would be the same as admitting she’d always intended to betray him, which he was almost certainly counting on given the bloodthirsty gleam in his eyes.
Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Marci fixed him with a surly look and tilted her head, baring her neck. “Do it, then,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m ready.”
The fact that the words made it out of her mouth meant that they were true, which was kind of a shock. Marci hadn’t realized she was so ready to die. But then again, maybe she wasn’t. Just because she’d never heard of anyone breaking a Sword of Damocles didn’t mean it wasactuallyimpossible, but the fact that Vann Jeger thought it was meant he’d probably leave her alone once it was done. That was a better chance than she’d had at the beginning, and if the sworddidcut off her head tomorrow, she wouldn’t be any more dead than she’d be if she tried to back out now. Either way, Marci was ready, and she clung to that truth like a rock as the mage ordered her to lower her shields.
Marci obeyed with a shudder, dropping her passive protections one by one until her magic was wide open and raw. When she was bare, the mage reached into her bag and pulled out a heavy silver needle, the same kind blood mages used for human rituals. The fact that an Algonquin Corporate mage would have such a sinister tool just lying around in her bag was slightly horrifying, but Marci didn’t have time to think about it. She was too busy trying not to panic as the woman retrieved a glass vial and turned to Vann Jeger.
For a moment, Marci couldn’t think why, and then the spirit made a fist, digging his claws into the flesh of his palm. It happened so quickly, the mage almost didn’t get the vial in place fast enough to catch the black, watery blood before it dripped onto the ground. Even sitting several feet away, Marci could feel the cold, deep power of that blood, and while she knew perfectly well that the source of a magical material had no impact on the end spell, she still cringed when the mage dipped the tip of the silver needle into the black liquid.
“This might sting a bit,” the woman warned, tapping the excess blood off on the edge of the glass before she leaned over Marci’s neck and jabbed the needle home.
It hurt like nothing else ever had. With her defenses down, the mage wasn’t just poking her skin. She was pokinginsideMarci’s magic. Each stab was so cold it burned, and even when the silver needle pulled out, the spirit’s blood remained, a drop of stinging salt water in each wound. It went on forever, but every time Marci wanted to break down and beg for them to stop, she remembered what was at stake. If she bailed on this, she’d either be killed or hauled off for murder. If she vanished, Julius would come looking for her, making himself a sitting duck. Marci couldn’t let that happen. Not to Julius, not to her, and certainly not over a stupid needle. So she closed her eyes and pushed through, breathing in long, ragged gasps until, at last, the stabbing stopped.
“Done,” the mage said, wiping the beaded sweat from her forehead. “It’s done.”
Marci collapsed into the chair, wishing with all her might that they’d undo her hands so she could clutch her neck and cry. “Let me see.”
The mage took her phone out of her pocket and held up its shiny surface for Marci to use as a mirror.
Well, she thought bitterly, at least it didn’t look at bad as it felt. On the left side of her neck, halfway between her jaw and her collar bone, a two-inch-long, solid black sword stood out like a brand against her bloody skin. Along the top of the sword’s edge were two strings of numbers, geographic coordinates for the location of the fight, and a time stamp for the precise moment of sunset tomorrow. That took care of the where and when, but what really made her wince was the line below the sword, where the corporate mage had transcribed Marci’s own words in neat, professional cursive.
Hunt him to your heart’s content.
She was still reading when the mage reached in to pat the area clean with a square of sterile gauze. But even when her blood was gone, the curse remained, the black mark painting a clear line where the magical sword would fall if she went back on her word. Just thinking about it made Marci grimace, and the mage didn’t look happy either as she bound the wound with a clean bandage. The only one who did look pleased by all of this was Vann Jeger, who was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“You have given me a great gift, mortal,” he rumbled, laying a cold, heavy hand on Marci’s shoulder. “A true battle, after so many years.” He beamed at her. “It will be a thing of beauty. You will see, for you will be there, or you will be dead.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Marci muttered, swallowing against her bitter anger. She had to get out of here. When the spirit looked at her like that, she swore she could feel his cold blood stirring under the cursed mark. “Not that I haven’t had a great time and all, but if you actually want your fight, you have to let me go. A day’s not much time to bring a dragon around, and I need to get to work.”
“Done,” the hunter said, motioning again to his mage, who was still cleaning up. She nodded and dropped what she was doing, reaching into her pocket to pull out a black bag.
“Oh no,” Marci groaned. “Not that thing again.”
“It’s the only way for those not sworn to our cause to leave this place alive,” Vann Jeger said with a shrug. “Would you like to reconsider my offer to kill you?”
Marci sighed and lowered her head.
