89. Danica

Danica

89

T he catacombs? More like a damp, dreary dungeon. Each step echoes like a drumbeat, reminding me that this place is as lively as a graveyard. I coax my little ball of light closer, and it dutifully floats ahead, a tiny hero fending off the darkness.

I'm clad back in my well-worn leathers, the supple material molding to my curves like a lover's caress. The familiar weight comforts me, and a sense of power and purpose settles over me.

My fingers dance over the hilts of my daggers, the blades gleaming in the dim light like predator's eyes. These deadly little beauties are more than just weapons. They're an extension of myself, a part of me.

Beside me, Rhyland and Erik are a mirror image, their leathers hugging their muscular frames. Erik's hand rests on the hilt of his sword, the blade name of which I recently learned: Gravewarden. Fitting.

The walls are covered in moss, and nature's attempt at interior decorating has gone wrong. The air is thick with the smell of decay as if centuries of stagnation have thrown a musty party. And let's not forget the subtle hint of something metallic, like a forgotten penny in a puddle.

Emily's text arrives, sending a tingle down my spine.

Emily: "It's go time, bitch! A hundred witches."

The witches' chanting grows louder with each step, their ancient words bouncing off the stone walls.

A hundred witches? Fantastic.

Their voices swell, a magical medley oozing from the rocks. I can practically taste the magic in the air, and it's not a flavor I'd recommend.

As we approach the undercroft, flickering candlelight beckons us closer. And there, in the center of it all, lies Lucian, sprawled on an altar. The witches form a circle around him, but wait—where's the rest of the coven? I count maybe half of what Emily mentioned. Something's not adding up.

We duck behind some columns, holding our breath like we're playing the world's most intense game of hide-and-seek. We're about twenty paces away, close enough to smell the magic but far enough to avoid being turned into toads. Erik and Rhyland are like ninja statues behind me, so quiet I'm half-tempted to check for a pulse.

"There's only half the witches here," I shoot into Rhyland's mind, my thoughts like a bullhorn in a library.

Rhyland nods. "We stick to the plan," he whispers. His eyes then lock with Erik's, relaying the same message telepathically.

The chamber is straight out of a medieval fantasy, complete with flickering candles casting eerie shadows. And there, in the center, stands the High Witch, looking like she raided Morticia Addams' closet.

Her hair is so black it could be mistaken for a void, and her skin is pale enough to make a ghost look tan. Her icy blue eyes could freeze a lesser witch in their tracks. Her hands are decked out in rings that look like they were forged in the fires of Mount Doom.

When the High Witch speaks, her voice cuts through the chatter like a hot knife through butter. "Sisters of the night, gather 'round," she commands, and I swear I can feel the pull of her words. "The hour of convergence is upon us."

Dramatic much?

The coven circles the altar, which looks like it was ripped from a heavy metal album cover, complete with silver skulls and symbols. The witches join hands, forming a link tighter than skinny jeans after Thanksgiving dinner.

The High Witch raises her arms, kicking her voice into high gear. "Feremous, avanteen, liricoul..." The words fill the air, and I feel the ancient power vibrating in my bones.

The coven joins in, their voices blending like a supernatural choir. "Aetherus spiricor, noctarum revelous!" The air hums with their chanting, and the candles flare up like they're trying to high-five the heavens.

Here we go.

The chanting swells like a dark tidal wave, and I can't help but glance at Lucian in the center of the ritual circle. He's the picture of serenity, but his eyes sparkle with mischief. He looks like the perfect sacrifice, a helpless lamb among the witches' gathered power.

I sneak a peek at Rhyland, his presence as solid as the column he's lurking behind, his steel-blue eyes laser-focused on the unfolding scene. Despite the carvings and gloom providing our cover, the anticipation between us is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

The witches' voices rise and fall like a hypnotic metronome. " Nocturna ligatu, umbra secorum," they chant, their words bouncing off the stone walls like verbal ping-pong balls.

Lucian goes limp under their spell, eyes closed, dead to the world.

"This better fucking work," I mutter.

"Corpus et anima, entwine in our divine chorus!" the High Witch's voice booms, rising above the collective chanting. Her fingers twitch like she's directing an orchestra of shadows.

Lucian's role is riskier than a tightrope walk over a shark tank, but it's crucial. The witches, focused on their spell, are oblivious to the ruse. They think their power is peaking, the sacrifice moment near, unaware they're about to be sacrificed.

Every word they utter makes their fates more tangled. "Bind as one, heart and soul, life and essence, to be undone by ourselves."

Rhyland gives a subtle hand signal. Timing is everything. We're waiting for the witches to reach maximum connection, their Achilles' heel.

The High Witch steps back, her chant blending into the others. "Seraphim corentei!" her voice thunders, signaling the ritual's grand finale.

The electric charge of anticipation hangs heavy as Rhyland unfurls from his concealment, his gaze locked on the High Witch. He's a coiled serpent, ready to strike.

And then, he moves.

It's a blur, a shadow of motion that defies the eyes. Rhyland is a streak, a specter haunting the edge of vision, his speed redefining quickness. There's no sound, just the whisper of displaced air.

For those who blink, it's a moment lost. The High Witch's incantations command the air a second before facing her downfall. Her eyes, flickering with power, widen briefly in realization.

Rhyland's hand finds its mark with an assassin's grace, seizing the witch's throat. There's a sharp snap, not unlike the breaking of dry wood, and the High Witch's body goes limp.

The circle breaks. The witches around her, moments ago linked in arcane solidarity, collapse. They fall like marionettes deprived of purpose, lifeless on the cold stone.

The chorus of magic ceases abruptly. The silence is profound and oppressive. Even the flickering candlelight seems to quail. The magic that once filled the air dissipates, leaving shadows and the chill of the grave.

Erik begins his task of decapitating the witches, methodically slicing off their heads with Gravewarden.

Eww.

Lucian comes to, sitting up quickly and looking around. It takes him a minute to shake off the effects.

"Shit yeah! I knew you wouldn't let me down, you big, sexy hunk of man-meat," Lucian crows, grinning. Before Rhyland can react, he's lunging toward him, lips puckered up.

Rhyland reacts with lightning speed, catching Lucian by the shoulders and holding him at arm's length.

"Whoa—Keep it in your pants. I don't need your herpes on my face," Rhyland growls.

Lucian gasps, clutching at his heart. "But Rhy-Rhy, I thought we had something special! Don't tell me you're just using me for my body. I mean, I wouldn't blame you, but still. I have feelings, you know."

Rhyland snorts, shoving Lucian away. "Yeah, feelings in your pants, maybe. Now quit fucking around. We need to leave."

It worked. Against all odds, our plan worked. I'd do a victory dance, but this isn't the time or place for celebratory choreography.

We begin to make our way out of the catacombs, the echoes of our footsteps mingling with the silence through the tunnels. Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I quickly pull it out, seeing Emily's name on the screen.

Emily: "More witches are heading that way. They know what happened. Move your asses!"

Oh, fuck me. I quickly inform the guys, and Rhyland's face contorts into a mask of rage, his beautiful blue eyes darkening.

We quicken our pace through the tunnels. Suddenly, Rhyland sweeps me into his arms, and the world blurs as we race toward fresh air. Just as we burst out of the tunnels, we slam into an invisible wall.

In a split second, Rhyland, Lucian, and Erik fall to their knees, their screams tearing through the air. I tumble to the ground as Rhyland writhes beside me.

They clutch their heads, faces twisted in pain. I spot a young witch, her eyes glowing an otherworldly purple. She holds her hands out, lips moving in a rapid incantation as she incapacitates my guys with powerful magic.

Dread settles in my stomach.

"You will not escape after what you've done," the witch with dark hair and eyes spits, her voice dripping with venom. She looks at me like I'm a stain on her favorite pointy hat.

Their collective gaze is heavy and oppressive, trying to bore holes into my soul. The air crackles with rage, and I almost see sparks flying from their linked hands.

My powerful vampires are reduced to helpless puppets, their brains scrambling. The witch's voice is a sinister melody slicing through the air and into their souls.

I stand frozen, my mind racing. This wasn't part of the plan. We were supposed to hold the cards, not the other way around. But here we are, caught in a web of our own making.

"Stop," I command, my voice ringing out with a force I didn't know I possessed.

The purple-eyed witch ignores me, her focus on Rhyland and his brothers as they thrash on the ground, blood pouring from their ears. The sight of their agony sends a surge of panic through my veins.

"Dani!" Emily shouts, her voice cutting through the chaos, but I can't see her. My vision narrows, my world shrinking to the three figures writhing on the ground and the witch who holds their lives in her grasp.

And then, something inside me snaps. I feel hot, angry power charging within me like a building storm. It's wild and untamed, a force of nature demanding release—a power I've been honing to control for weeks—I'm about to detonate a human-shaped bomb filled with magic.

"Big mistake," I growl.

My hands ignite, white-hot flames engulfing my fingers. The heat is so intense it should be painful, but all I feel is a surge of raw power. A roar tears from my throat, a primal sound that echoes as I unleash my power outward like a supernova.

White fire surrounds me, a blazing inferno that consumes everything. The screams of burning witches fill the air, a cacophony of agony.

The purple-eyed witch's concentration shatters, her hold on Rhyland and his brothers breaking as the flames engulf her. Her screams join the others, a symphony of suffering.

I stand at the center of the maelstrom, a pillar of light and fury. The witches fall like dominoes, their charred bodies hitting the ground.

And then, it's over. The flames die out, leaving nothing but the acrid stench of burnt flesh and eerie silence. I stand there, chest heaving, hands still glowing.

Holy shit. Did I just...? I can't finish the thought. I look at Rhyland and his brothers, their eyes wide with awe. I've just unleashed a force I never knew I had, a power that saved their lives but ended many others.

The last time, it was just a blast of power. This time, I unleashed a ring of white-hot fire. The difference is staggering, and I can still feel the heat lingering on my skin.

I look around at the devastation, the charred bodies of the witches scattered like discarded dolls. The air is thick with the stench of burnt flesh and dark magic gone awry. It's a scene from a horror movie, and I'm the monster at the center of it all.

But even as the horror settles in, I can't deny the protectiveness that still courses through me. These witches were going to kill Rhyland and his brothers, and I did what I had to do to save them. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Rhyland pulls me to his chest, his arms wrapping around me like a lifeline. "Thank you, Angel," he whispers. I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a reassuring rhythm amid the chaos.

Lucian and Erik stand, holding their heads, blood still dripping from their ears, but the agony is gone. They look better, but the haunted look in their eyes tells me the memory of their torture will linger.

Suddenly, Sable comes running from the castle. She stops, eyes widening in horror. Then, she drops to her knees, a broken sob tearing from her throat.

I watch as she kneels before a witch, possibly a friend, hands covering her face as she weeps. The sound of her sorrow is like a knife to my heart.

"No…Emily!" Sable's anguished cry pierces the air, her voice raw with grief.

My mind misfires, the sound of my best friend's name falling from Sable's lips like a blow. Rhyland stiffens against me, his body mirroring the icy numbness spreading through me.

"No..." The word falls from my lips, a broken whisper.

I tear away from Rhyland, my feet carrying me toward Sable. I drop to the ground beside her, the impact sending shockwaves through my knees, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the agony in my heart.

There, lying before me, is Emily. Half of her body is burnt, the once-vibrant skin now charred and lifeless. She lies still, no breath passing through her lips.

"No, no, no…EMILY!" I scream, my voice raw and broken, as I gather her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. Sobs wrack my body, tears pouring down my face as I stare at the lifeless form of my best friend.

I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but rock back and forth, holding Emily's body as if I can will life back into her. This can't be happening. This can't be real. But the weight of her in my arms, the stillness of her once-lively form, is a truth I can't escape.

This is my fault. The power I unleashed to save the ones I love has taken the life of someone I never imagined living without. I couldn't control the magic burst from me like a supernova, and Emily paid the price.

Guilt and grief war within me, threatening to tear me apart. How can I ever forgive myself for this? How can I look at my reflection again, knowing that this power is responsible for the death of my best friend?

I bury my face in Emily's hair, tears soaking the once-vibrant strands. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry, Emily. I never meant for this to happen. I never meant to hurt you."

But my words are meaningless, hollow apologies that can't bring her back or undo the devastation. I've lost her, lost a piece of myself. And as I kneel there, holding the lifeless body of my best friend, I know that nothing will ever be the same again.