Veda tries to push against the wave of magic, tries to crawl away, tries every spell she knows. It earns her nothing more than pain and a trickle of blood from her nose. Still, she drags herself forward, one knee after the other, crawling away from the fire and forcing herself to move with magic and might. Her amulet chars her skin, a reminder that she is no match against raw magic.
Impostor Everett grabs her ankle and pulls. The pressure intensifies until she can’t breathe.
“One way or another, you’re coming with me.”
Veda claws the grass, twisting, blind with pain and terror. She kicks and screams until her boot connects with the pendant around their neck. Their features blur into a kaleidoscope, reforming into Veda’s face.
Eyes squeezed shut, she kicks again. It lands hard. Everything dies when the impostor gasps like they’ve lost all their wind and then collapses.
Veda hauls herself upright. It’s unsettling to see her own face grimacing in agony on the ground. Backing away, she nearly falls again when the bones in her ankle grind together. Every step is a battle. She nearly stumbles over the real Everett, slumped against the side of a building.
Drenched in sweat, he’s rocking back and forth, and muttering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Veda can’t stop. Summoning the last of her strength, she throws out a desperate cry for help. Her amulet sizzles, levitating from where it rests on her chest. A blinding bolt of light bursts from her fingertips. The streetlights explode with enough force to plunge the entire street into darkness. Someone notices the fire and yells, which creates instant, distracting chaos.
Veda’s hobble turns into a hopping run. Down one alley, then another, she stumbles through the darkness. The crushing wave of magic presses in on all sides. The Botanist must be close. Veda doesn’t know if she’ll be able to fight again, yet adrenaline roars in her veins, her vision swimming in colors. Even at a distance, magic is volatile, dangerous, but the Botanist clearly doesn’t care.
The spell hits. Then the world shifts. The path ahead lengthens, splitting and twisting as though she’s looking through a fun house mirror. Reflections of herself mimic her movements. All but one. That one screams.
Raw magic slams into Veda, sending her sprawling. Before she can catch her breath, her clone is on top of her, hands closing around her throat once again, squeezing hard. Veda thrashes, kicking wildly, clawing at the hands around her throat, fighting to scream. But there’s no air.
“Go to sleep,” the clone croons. “We have experiments to do—”
A burst of light strikes her clone, tossing them backward. She hyperventilates on precious air, and her hand flies to cover her throat. She isn’t prepared for the sudden touch of real Everett’s hand, trembling as he frantically mutters, “They came to you at night. The musicplayed on. The mark grows. Changes. It lives in you but is destined for her. For her!”
Veda’s fingers tingle. Whatever unconscious magic he’s using on her is incomplete. She clings to the tendrils of life, desperate to hold on.
Every ounce of magic her amulet has ever absorbed erupts from within the stone, detonating in a blinding wave of power. A final, sacrificial gift.
Deafened by its scream, paralyzed by the pressure, Veda watches her amulet’s essence rise, mingling with the first sparks. Everett’s hand is gone, his body hurled away in the explosion of color and warmth, magic and ozone. The pain fades as shefinallydraws in a full breath.
Light fractures into a thousand hues like the birth of a new star. Despair and gratitude rise in tandem, heavy in her chest.
Her head throbs. Her vision clouds.
Darkness swallows her whole.
“Don’t move.”
Veda gasps into consciousness. Coughing and flailing, she panics, sucking in as much air as her lungs will allow and sputtering. The tightness in her chest unwinds enough to carve out one desperate sound as she claws at the hands near her face until the world sharpens.
“Can you hear me?” they ask.
She knows the voice. She knows the face. Confusion halts her fight.
Hiram looks up, signaling to someone. “We’re over here!”
What follows is a blur of Gabriel and Francisco and medics crowding around her. Questions fly, but Veda can’t answer any. She jolts at every noise and touch, especially when they poke, prod, inject potions into her veins, and pour elixirs down her throat. They talk to each other, but Veda can’t focus, too tired after crawling through hell.
Veda doesn’t realize she’s being moved until she’s already off the ground. She screams.
“Give her a minute,” Hiram snaps, then his focus is on her. “They’re taking you to the hospital. You’re hurt and your throat is ...”
His words fade into a hum when a medic dabs at her eyes. Her head swims. Gently, someone touches her neck. She smells burning flesh and wonders if it’s hers. Everything goes from too loud to too quiet. Air is lava in her lungs. Veda forces her head to the side. Gabriel is watching her, worried.
Hiram rides with her to the hospital, doesn’t explain, nor does she ask. Under the harsh lights, subtle signs of his distress are easier to see. As are the burn marks on his knuckles, the cut on his forehead, his torn sleeve. Veda’s injuries are deeper than pain, and his grimace once the doctors cut open her dress confirms this.
“You can wait outside, sir,” someone says.
