Brave the Tempest (Cassandra Palmer #9) - Karen Chance Page 0,138

not have them injured.” I glanced around the room, and weirdly, the same hush had fallen over it that had preceded Jonas speaking earlier. Of course it had, I thought cynically. For all their centuries of experience, the senate only really respected one thing, and that was power.

I wondered if the covens were the same.

“They can take care of themselves!” Ingaret said, a red stream flooding out of her wand. But not at me—not yet. It crawled up into the air like a bloody snake and hung there, I didn’t know why. And then I did, when maybe a dozen more witches pulled their own wands, adding their strength to it.

One of them was the impressive woman from yesterday morning, at the coven’s version of a train station, although she didn’t look too happy to be here. And neither did some of the others. Time to make them unhappier, I thought, and gripped the table harder.

“They can’t, actually,” I said, pulling attention back to me. “If I have to fight all of you at once, I will not be able to precisely control the area of the effect. Not while channeling that much power.” I looked at the consul. “Evacuate this place—and not just this room. Empty the house, and to be on the safe side, get everyone a good half mile away.”

“A half mile!” Ingaret sneered. “You should make your lies more believable!” She looked around at her supporters, who had started glancing at each other. “She lies!”

“I wish I did,” I told her sadly. “But that’s the problem with being only a demigod; there are . . . restrictions. Mine have always been with control. I can channel as much power as my mother ever did—for a short time—but I can’t control it nearly so well. In fact, I’m not even as good at that as Agnes was. She had such fine-tuned control; it was a beautiful thing. Like a dagger between the ribs. While I—”

I looked down at the table under my hands, where the beautiful, shiny wood had started to gray and crack and splinter. It was only a puddle now, maybe a couple of feet square; I doubted Ingaret could even see it. And if I wanted this to work, she needed to.

“I’ve always been more of a hammer,” I told her, and pushed.

The effect tore down the table, giving me more than I’d expected. A lot more, I thought in surprise, watching not only the table but the gilded chairs around it spontaneously age. And while the slab of thick, dark wood grayed in an instant, fissures forming in the surface and running toward Ingaret’s group like claws, it was the chairs that did me proudest. They exploded away from the table like popcorn, causing people to flinch and step back, before hitting the floor with a clatter.

I wasn’t exactly sure why they were doing that; maybe some buildup of gases under the gilding as the wood decayed? But I’d take it, because more and more of Ingaret’s people were looking like they were having second thoughts. And no more had joined the scarlet thread now wending its way up to the ceiling.

But nobody was leaving, either, and my power was almost spent barely halfway down the table.

“Hurry,” I said breathlessly to the consul. “I’m trying to hold it back, but I don’t know how long I can! I don’t usually summon so much at once!”

“Begin evacuation,” she told Mircea, her dark eyes on mine. “Make sure everyone gets out.”

“And away,” I reminded her, groaning as if trying desperately to hold my power back.

In reality I was pushing forward with everything I had left. The effect continued down the wood, slower now, but almost creepier for it. Little fingers of rot and decay—of death—crept across the mighty slab, as if reaching for the women at the end. And the chairs, formerly exploding, were now collapsing inside their golden sheaths, leaving puddles of gilt behind on the floor, like dropped robes.

Or shed skins.

“You won’t look that good,” I told the women, who were staring at them. “There won’t be anything left of you at all, except possibly for bones. They tend to be more resilient.”

“She’s bluffing!” Ingaret said again. “No one can channel that much power!”

“No human,” I repeated. “I’m not one.” And I gave it everything I had, everything I had left, until it felt like I’d hollowed out my bones, stripped my veins, bled out. Until I would have screamed, but I didn’t