Page 113 of Spirit Storm

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The weight of tons of rock crashing over us doesn't come.

I'm braced for it. Every muscle in my body is coiled against the inevitable crush of rock and earth and darkness, but then—nothing.

Time stands still, and I'm lost in the rush of adrenaline and the ragged pulls of my breathing. My mind spins out. Asher's arms are solidly wrapped around me and mine around Wylder.

Did Asher portal us out?

I open my eyes and the confusion grows.

The darkness is gone. The chamber looks exactly as it did twenty minutes ago. Intact ceiling. Intact walls. The rune circle gleaming in the low emerald green light, the altar table whole and standing.

"What. The. Hell?"

Asher lifts his head from where he'd buried it against my side. "What happened?"

Mica drops to a crouch beside me, her teal hair thick with plaster dust and her grey eyes sharp and wild. "Get up. Garrison can't hold it for long."

"Hold what? When did you get here?”

I scramble to my feet, Wylder rising with me, and follow her pointing finger to the center of the chamber.

Garrison Stonehoof stands just inside the ruined doorway. Except the doorway isn't ruined anymore. None of this makes any sense.

The High Chancellor of the Order fills the space from floor to arched ceiling, his midnight robes moving without wind, his massive bison head lowered and set with a concentration so absolute it radiates heat.

His hands are spread wide. Between them, the air is visibly different—dense and compressed and crackling with a contained energy that makes my teeth ache.

Tharuzel bellows in rage, and I spin.

The major demon seems locked in time.

"What's happening?" I ask again.

Mica grabs my arm to spin me to face her and reaches into the canvas bag slung across her shoulder. "Garrison is using rift magic to hold the chamber in a pocket. Tharuzel can't leave and he can't call demons."

"How long can he hold it?" Wylder asks, catching up quicker than me.

"Not long enough for twenty questions." She pulls a gold-metaled blade from the canvas bag and presses it into my hand.

The grip is warm, and beneath my fingers, the metal hums with the layered weight of Mica's magic, mine, and Asher’s. The blood imbuing sings back to something buried deep inside my chest.

It feels like being handed part of myself back.

"These will work?" Wylder asks, accepting one.

"Eighty percent confident." She passes another of her blades to Asher without looking at him. "Which is higher than zero percent confident, so let's go."

"Mica—"

"Eighty-five percent, then." She reaches into the bag and pulls out a gold-metaled collar before giving the bag to Asher. "Guys, move! Hand these out."

As they scramble off, she opens the hammered metal torc and snaps it around my neck. The metal settles cold against my throat, and then something shifts. The pressure I hadn't known I was carrying eases and the architecture of my mind goes silent.

"With any luck, it'll keep him out of your head and out of your body."

I touch the torc with two fingers. "Amazing."