Of all the time for my dad to kick up and try to Influence me, he had to do it now. I fought to hold my focus, to not fall beneath his words.
I never had a chance.
He had full control of my mind, of my hands. I was pressed, not unconscious, but simply away from myself, my body. I felt daydreamy and drifty and didn’t even see it as my father used my hand to trace a new spell.
End, he said. And my daydreams were filled with his memories of using that spell in hand-to-hand combat, canceling spells other magic users threw, canceling his own spells and changing them into new, wicked blades to throw at his enemies.
The air flashed hot, cold. The spell in the room extinguished. Lights crackled to life; the lingering scents of roses and apricot and ash filled the air.
My ears popped from the pressure, and I inhaled greedily as I came back to myself, like someone had been holding my head underwater.
Shamus fell to his knees next to the plant. His fingers spread and sunk in the soil, his head bent, hair hiding his pale face, back heaving with each heavy breath. I was amazed he was still breathing.
He grunted and rocked back the rest of the way onto his heels, one hand still in the plant that now looked shriveled, dried, dead. Drops of sweat, blood, or tears made small plick sounds against his jeans.
“Are you okay?” I thought I could get it all out, but my voice was hoarse and I had to take a breath between each word.
“Allie,” Maeve said softly. Or at least I think she was talking quietly. It could also be that my eardrums were blown.
Come to think of it, I wasn’t feeling so great myself.
“Fuck it all,” Shamus muttered, his words nasal and stuffy. He lifted his free hand to his face. I noted his hand was shaking as he wiped at his eyes and nose.
Maeve had not moved. “Allie, I need your attention right now. It is very important.”
I didn’t know why she wasn’t worried about Shamus. He was her kid, after all, and that spell, my spell, had just kicked the holy hell out of him.
I looked up at her.
Maeve was a tower of authority, twice as tall as I’d last seen her, red hair flowing like a river of flame in a wind I could not feel. Her skin glowed so bright it was like she had swallowed the moon. Only her eyes, deep, earth-holding green, showed a speck of her humanity.
I had had this kind of vision before, had seen Zayvion covered in silver whorls and glyphs, his skin burning with blue-tipped black fire.
But if Zayvion had been night and the edge of magic and ebony heat, Maeve was the pale, cruel light of dawn.
“Come to me,” she commanded.
“Hey.” I exhaled, inhaled. “You told me you”—pause for breath again—“wouldn’t do that.” It probably wasn’t Influence she was using right now anyway.
Still, I started toward her. Okay, four feet had never felt so much like four miles. I didn’t so much hurt as feel very, very drained. I was empty and beyond tired.
Maeve reached out one impossibly long arm. Her cool white fingers tucked under the right side of my jaw—the side marked by magic. She tipped my face so she could look into my eyes.
And I mean look. Just like before. And just like before, my father skittered away somewhere in the back of my head, quiet as a rat.
She drew the index finger of her other hand across my forehead, and I sighed at the cool relief that brought me.
“How did you know End?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Think Dad knew it, maybe, used it, maybe?”
Okay, I wasn’t thinking too well right now. Right now, all I wanted to do was sit on the floor and take a nap.
“Yes,” she said. “He did. It is a dangerous spell, very old, rarely taught. I’d rather you not use it again without training.”
She let go of my chin and took a step back. She looked normal again, her red and gray hair piled in a messy bun, her skin creamy and freckled, her eyes green. Just green.
“Sure,” I said. “Sorry. It’s my first day.”
A sound halfway between a snort and a choked laugh rose from where Shamus sat.
“She’s right, Mum.” He tipped his face up. Black hair fell back, revealing the livid bruises across both eyes that were nearly swollen shut, and the bloody smear