The Thing About Weres

“Why does that not surprise me?” I rolled my neck, hoping to relieve the bite of pain nibbling between my shoulder blades.

He stared moodily at his outstretched foot. Scuffed toes, soft brown leather. One little brass buckle. “The first mage of the Court bade me to be wary of vanity and undue curiosity, but within six winters of his fade, I’d meddled with things best left to the stars. And to my eternal remorse, I recorded the results of my experiments, hoping to share my knowledge.”

Bullshit. You wrote your Book of Spells to serve as a record of your brilliance.

He flicked me a look of dislike. “The day my sentence was handed to me, I fully understood the true measure of my vanity. I’d left the written sum of my knowledge to a mage who was unprepared, both in spirit and training, to receive it.”

“Enter the Black Mage.”

“Helzekiel,” he corrected. “When my student reads the last page in my Book of Spells he will have the power to destroy worlds. And I very much fear that my Maker shall not grant me forgiveness when he does.”

My shoulders began to throb in earnest; the weight of his soul ball, aching and heavy.

The wizard cast me a frown of irritation. “You shrug your shoulders, but it is very much your problem, too. Once the horror is unleashed, its misery will bleed into your world. Portals will drip with it.”

I scanned the darkening sky. There were no birds in this world. “As far as I can see there’s only one portal.”

“There are more. You have seen very little of Threall.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mad-one nod in agreement.

So, Aunt Lou and Trowbridge hadn’t been wrong, there were indeed more portals. And soon—too soon— some very nasty Fae shit would begin dripping into a small fairy pond in Creemore. Then maybe the wind will carry it a few hundred feet to the Alpha of Creemore’s house, where Trowbridge stood in the hall talking to Harry, and Cordelia puttered in the laundry room, and Biggs muttered in the … Oh Goddess … Merry and Ralph waited there, too.

None of them knowing that Armageddon was one drip away.

He shook his head. “I’d hoped that I’d been offered an opportunity for absolution. That my Maker had sent me one who would aid me in the destruction of the Book of Spells. But with my death, the wards I set to shield those pages will disintegrate and Helzekiel will learn the secrets held within the book. Now my soul shall never reach the Arcadian fields.”

Well, boo-fucking-hoo. The old guy looked so aggrieved, sitting there in his slick silk robes—this arrogant mage who’d messed with the sun and produced the potion that was the key to everything in my life going up in flames.

“Hate to break it to you but that’s a done deal,” I said. “Dust to dust, right? You might have missed it what with all the drama, but your citadel is toast. Your wards are gone. By now, your boy Helzekiel is thumbing his way through your Book of Spells.”

“My wards will hold until the death of my cyreath,” he corrected, adjusting his sleeve. “Until that moment, they are invincible.”

“Well, here’s a newsflash for you, Old Mage—they were invincible to everyone but a Stronghold. Lexi’s peeled half of your wards right off the page. Not only that … he told me that your hide spells were thinning—he could read right through some of them with his naked eye.”

The old man turned sharply in his chair, his brow furrowed. “Your brother can see through magic?”

“He can steal it, too.”

The wizard’s eyes brightened like a kid with a bottle rocket and a pack of matches.

“Her twin is capable of seeing magic?” For a second I really thought he was going to rock in glee, but all he did was to observe in a tone of restrained awe, “Verily, it is a sign from my Maker. Salvation is at hand. How else could I choose a mystwalker with such a twin? Fate has been instructed to place us together so that I can undo —”

“Verily,” I said. “You’re dumber than a box of rocks if you’re contemplating placing your trust in Karma. She’s a vengeful—”

“What you call Karma is merely the stars seeking balance.”

“She’s still a bitch.”

The Old Mage got out of his chair to stare upward at Lexi’s citadel. “To save the world, I must save this creature’s life.” He fingered his lower lip thoughtfully. “How to cure him of the incurable?” Frowning, he spread his fingers then waved his hand crosswise through the air. The wind stirred, parting the greenery, and I caught a brief glimpse of my brother’s amethyst-hued cyreath.

Mad-one drifted over to his shoulder.

“The cravings must be teased from his mind and body,” he told her absently. “An almost impossible task, but it can be done.”

The Mystwalker arched her neck then she rose in the air until she was near level with the light streaming from the tree.

Stop looking at my twin like that, whackjob.

He turned to pace, his wizard robes snapping at his ankles. “It will require the most powerful magic in its most concentrated form to do so. Fortunately—” The old man stilled, mid-step, “Eureka!” written all over his face.

Hope started blipping in my chest as he lifted his chin to study the sky.

From where we were, deep inside the forest, the portal to Merenwyn was a distant coil above ragged treetops—a genie’s tail streaking up into the sky. I’ve already thought of that, Mr. Mage. First we’d have to get him past the Black Mage’s archers. Then we’d have to find him some juice to tide him over until we got to the Pool of Life—

“Bathing in the water will not lead to his cure,” the mage said brusquely. “It would only increase his lust for sun potion.”

I wish he’d stop listening to my internal thoughts.

“And I’d wish you would stop thinking,” he snapped a tad peevishly. “Your endless chatter is an insufferable irritation.”

Yeah? Can you read my thoughts now?

His eyes narrowed into squinty slits.

Chapter Twenty-six

I counted a slow and deliberate twelve “Mississippis” (which bugged the crap out of him in the most satisfying way) then asked, “Why won’t the Pool of Life heal him?”

“Because sun potion was derived from the elements found within its sacred waters,” he answered with forced patience. “Bathing in it will only inflame his cravings—precisely as one sip of spirits inevitably leads to a flagon of mead. His beast requires a different source of healing. One that must be derived from elemental magic.”

Quite impervious to the way I’d stiffened at the B-word, he gazed at the portal with proud-papa pride. “Your twin will find healing in my passages.”

“Your passages?”

“The portals are my creation,” he said. “Perhaps my greatest achievement.”

His creation, huh?

Bile rose in my throat. “So what did you tell those first few portal travelers? Psst, buddy, you want to see a door to another world? Go ahead, step right through it. Don’t you fret, you won’t end up in a dead end.” Disgust laced my tone. “What were they? Fuel? Did their magic feed your portals?”

“They are immaterial. What is important is that each of my portals has a…” He paused to choose a word carefully. “A resting place. Created as a forethought for the possibility a mage might need—”

“A hiding spot.”