Could she feel his Ward power?
Was that how she knew?
The father’s gaze caught on her gesture, and the wind recognized his expression now. It was fury and hate.
Hate was one of the easiest expressions to read. It was flat and monotone, and it had none of the uniqueness and varying shades of love.
The father had always believed himself the most wonderful, most magnetic, most majestic conjurer in the world. His children were the reflection of his rising sun. If he shone, they shone. If they were dim, then he was dim. Any blemish in them was a reflection on him.
He could never bear anything less than perfection.
Or, at least, the illusion of perfection.
But not even illusion could heal the citrus and pearl dust scented one. She was evidence that the father was not perfect. That he was mortal and weak.
He hated her for it.
The woman lifted her chin. Her brothers moved next to her.
The father sighed. It was a sigh worthy of the stage. “Children never do what you ask them to. It’s why dogs are the better companion. Luvic.”
The trickster’s name was said with command and power.
The trickster spasmed. He wrenched, his muscles contorting. He fell to his knees.
The Bard twisted his hand.
At the same moment, the woman and the musician conjured together. They twined their illusion and threw a net at their father. It was a seaside scene. A net of mist. The wind could taste the poison of it.
The Bard threw a deep-sea monster at his children. Their net grabbed the monster and yanked it to the ground.
The trickster’s hands slammed to the concrete, and he choked on a strangled cry.
“Luvic!” the father snapped. “They threaten your Bard.”
The trickster shuddered and shook, fighting against the jackaltooth spreading through him. The gray mottling raced over his skin, covering all the gold that remained. He gritted his teeth, shaking his head.
“Stop!” the woman screamed. “Luvic!”
Yet what had the trickster warned his sister? What had the musician known? That in a battle between principal and heir, the trickster would stand on the principal’s side. He was a jackaltooth.
She furiously thrust a river of snapping piranha at her father. He waved them aside. She twisted her hand, conjuring the head of a mosasaur. It snapped down toward the father. Its giant teeth were as tall as a man. The father conjured a watery abyss that swallowed the beast.
The Bard laughed. “You think a child can surpass her parent? An heir defeat her principal? I think not.”
The musician began to sing. The mournful melody was enough to make a heart bleed.
A low, chirping cricket began to sing with him. A golden-honey, luck scented, new penny smell filled the air.
The trickster gave a ragged, painful cry. He twisted, falling to his side. He clutched his chest, gripping his shirt pocket. “Cora. Go—” His voice broke off, ending in a jackaltooth growl.
The father held out his arms and twisted both hands. “I would have preferred a different ending for you, daughter. Son.”
The woman shot a bolt of ice at the Bard.
The trickster erupted, tearing free from his human form. He spasmed, ripping apart and becoming a massive, prehistoric-size jackaltooth. He launched in front of the Bard, snarling as he leaped. The ice bolt shot through his side. He twisted in the air and slammed to the ground.
“Luvic!” the woman screamed as the trickster flew across the pavement, blood staining his mottled gray fur.
