Page 91 of Fortress of Ambrose (House of Marionne #3)

Seventy-Four

Quell

No one in the extraction room breathes as Erla connects the Dragunhead and Jordan with spindly tubes.

Light dims outside, and the study lounge turned lab glows with firelight.

No one sits on the concrete armchairs or pores over the walls of books.

Every person lingers on the perimeter of the room, watching Jordan and the Dragunhead sitting on two tables several feet apart.

“Lie back, please,” Erla tells them both.

“Not a chance,” the Dragunhead says, double fisting the diadem in his hands.

Ominous shadows lingered over the doorpost when I arrived, fingers of darkness stretching inside the room every few moments. Nore rushed to close the door just as her mother joined her side. They haven’t moved since, holding hands.

I have a plan.

But Nore made it better.

The Shadow Cell magic residue Jordan gave Abby wasn’t strong enough on the cloak. But it would be stronger streaming directly from the source—Jordan. They weren’t going to put the Sphere’s magic into the Dragunhead. It would still go into the rings as planned.

They were going to saturate his body with enough paralyzing magic to restrain him.

Then Nore was going to steal his heart—the heart of an immortal with powerful ancient magic—as an offering to her dead.

We can’t kill him.

Making him a prisoner to the dead is our best hope.

With the Pact nullified, they can have his heart and it has no bearing on their House or their magic. It does mean Ambrose has to earn their intellect fair and square, but they wouldn’t be at the mercy of the dead anymore. It is their best shot.

Jordan lies back, and I lean over to kiss him on the forehead, whispering through gritted teeth, “Shadow Cell magic.”

A divot appears between his brows. I haven’t had a chance to tell anyone Nore’s plan. I squeeze his hand, hoping he gets my meaning.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Winkel watches from the perimeter of the room, hands stuffed in the pockets of his gray robes embroidered with blue flowers along the collar. “Our Headmistress has much faith in you.”

Abby turns the handle of Lady Ruby’s dagger. Winkel notices. He whispers, “It may not kill him, but in a pinch, it would slow him down. Good thinking.”

I join Erla between the tables. Jordan reaches for my hand, and I lace my fingers between his. Cold inside me tugs toward him, but I hold still.

“Are we ready?” Erla asks, sliding the box of rings onto the table beside Jordan.

“Sorry, a slight change.” I look at her with a deliberateness that I hope makes what I’m not saying clear.

“No rings, Erla.” I take the box and pretend to set it aside, blocking the Dragunhead’s view with my body.

Carefully, I pour the rings onto the table beside Jordan, out of sight. “The magic goes directly into him.”

Erla grabs her necklace. “What do you mean?”

I glare at her, willing her to understand. “Run wires both ways. His blood will infuse Jordan to keep him from dying. And Jordan’s magic will be siphoned into him. No rings.” I quirk a brow slightly.

“O-oh, alright.” She fidgets.

The Dragunhead hops off the table and snatches the now-empty box of rings from the table. He spots the stack hidden beside Jordan and glares at me. I go cold all over, and it’s not my magic.

“We have a deal, Quell. All the magic, to me.” He destroys the rings with sharp sparks of darkness like I’ve never seen.

The rings’ gold castings melt into puddles on the floor.

The stones crack under the pressure of his strange magic.

When he’s done, the collection of rings we worked so hard to get are all gone.

I glance at the dagger in Abby’s hand and swallow. The Dragunhead returns to his table and leans back without fully reclining. He drapes his hands across his body, fingers drumming on stomach.

“Get started.”

I blow out a breath and nod for Erla to start.

My mind spirals. Black-tinged blood travels through a tube toward Jordan as the magic moves from the Dragunhead’s body to him.

When it reaches Jordan, his chest expands with a deep inhale.

Then his breaths grow longer and deeper.

I lift his shirt, watching the bruise on his side. Unchanged.

“Jordan, start pushing the magic out of you.”

Erla works the tubing around his fingertips. We meet eyes, and he nods imperceptibly.

Toushana laced with haze fills the tube traveling toward the Dragunhead, who sits erect, watching the magic slink closer with skepticism in his stare.

Bystanders watch. Winkel grips his robes, shaking his head as if something is terribly wrong.

But when the icy Shadow Cell magic connects with the Dragunhead’s skin, he inhales.

So sharply his head tips back, as if he’s taken in a gulp of the freshest breath of air.

He lies back on the stone bed with a sublime expression.

I wait, watching, waiting for him to realize.

But he hasn’t yet noticed that the sleek, dark magic funneling into him is laced with a paralyzing haze. Jordan’s bruise on his side begins to fade, the dark red flesh lightening and filling out around his hollowed ribs.

“It’s working.”

The Dragunhead grunts. It morphs to a moan. Then he thrashes on the bed, trying to sit up. He claws at the tubes. I throw my body across his, pressing him down to the table.

“Hurry! Help me pin him down.”

He groans louder this time, clawing at anything he can reach as Abby and Yagrin hold down his ankles. Isla grabs him by the hair. He howls in pain.

“Jordan, more magic. As much as you can!” I anchor my body down across my father, holding on to the underside of his bed.

The Dragunhead grabs my throat. His grip is iron.

“You!” His speech slurs, the magic taking hold. I can’t breathe. I claw at his wrists. My eyes burn, and my throat begs for air. He squeezes so tight the world darkens. I dig my nails deeper into his wrists, tearing at his skin. If I am dying, I am taking as much of him with me as I can.

Yagrin drives his elbow into the Dragunhead’s throat. He wails, his grip on my neck slipping, and I gasp for air. I blink the world back into focus.

Shadow Cell magic still rushes through the tube toward him. When a gush of magic siphons into him, he bucks on the table, trying to fight it.

“Hold him tight!” I choke out, my lungs refilling as I pin down one of his arms. Nore grits her teeth. Isla double-wraps his hair around her arm.

The Dragunhead tries to resist my hold, but his movements grow clunky.

After several moments, I can feel his muscles relax beneath me.

He exhales and sinks into the table, his arms dangle at his sides, then their swaying grows stiff.

Until they stop moving completey. His mouth sags as the last bit of fight goes out of him.

“Now!”

Erla rushes over. She widens the opening of the tube so his blood flows faster into Jordan. Abby dribbles a clear liquid down the Dragunhead’s open mouth.

“It’s a sleeping draught,” she says. “I don’t know how long it will work or if it will work at all. But it can’t hurt.”

Foam bubbles at his lips. We release him. And to my great relief the monster doesn’t move. His chest rises shallowly, but the rest of him is as rigid as death. Nore exhales. Then she spits in his face before collapsing in her mother’s hug.

“Jordan,” I say, noticing his face has nearly drained of all color.

“He doesn’t have long,” Abby shouts. “This excess toushana needs to go somewhere before it forces its way into his bones.”

Erla grabs me. “There are no rings.”

I take the dagger from Abby but freeze. All toushana in one thing makes it too easy to steal.

It sounds like a thousand voices in the room talking at the same time.

“Quiet!” I can figure this out. I can get us out of this mess. If only I could>— Isla shakes Nore by the arm, trying to get her to think of something.

And it hits me.

As long as magic is in one thing or one person, it will be coveted.

The Sphere’s magic—the locus of control of all magic—has to be in everyone.

That’s the only way to level the playing field and give everyone a fighting chance. First, we need to distribute the Sphere’s toushana. Giving it to everyone in the Order sounds impossible…

But Isla Ambrose did it.

And Darragh Marionne used it as a cover story because she knew it was possible. I pace in a circle, tuning out the rising arguments. Winkel is trying to convince Nore to bring Kimper in.

“Isla!” I pull Nore’s mother aside, who is still wiping away grief from her cheeks. “I need to know exactly how you poisoned Nore by accident. What did you do?”

She sniffles. “I, um, I folded enhancer stones into a dagger that were supposed to awaken magic. I used a dagger because they can hold large amounts of magic. We fold hundreds of enhancers into them. It seemed like the best choice. The enhancers folded in nicely enough. But then I let the blade touch her blood, and I—I knew something was wrong right away. Magic drained from the metal like a sieve into Nore. In seconds, black dripped from her fingers.”

“And now, because magic is in the blood,” I say, realizing this is the key, “it can pass down genetically.” This is how we share the Sphere’s magic now and keep it alive in all Marked for generations to come. “This is great news!”

“What are you thinking?” Erla asks as I hand her the dagger. Jordan’s fallen unconscious. The Sphere’s toushana is agitated. We need to hurry.

I hand Erla the blade. Nore hovers near the Dragunhead’s body, waiting for my signal with a dark glove in hand.

Erla cuts an incision into Jordan’s side and slides the dagger against his ribs.

The blade glows red, then darkens. She holds it there, and I watch as black peels itself off his insides and siphons into the dark silver.

“Is it working?”

But Erla doesn’t answer. Her mouth pushes sideways in consternation.

Jordan groans. Then his head lolls.

“What’s happening!”

“He’s tired,” Erla says. “Talk to him.”

“Stay with me,” I tell him. “Can I try?”

She hands me the blade’s handle, and I hold it firmly against him, watching his chest rise and fall slower than before. The stream of blood running to his body from the Dragunhead slows as well.

“Jordan, can you hear me? We’ve done it!

The world is not yours to fix, but dammit, this is.

You stay with me! You fight.” Tears sting my eyes.

“Hold on with everything you have. You can’t leave me now.

Not when we’ve nearly won.” I press my forehead to his, tears forcing their way down my cheeks.

“I can smell saltwater. Can you hear the waves?” I sob against him, my tears dripping onto his face.

His mouth moves.

Then his hands.

“His bruise,” Erla says. His purpled skin fades like a ship on the horizon. Gradually, after several long minutes, what feels like a lifetime, the layers of rot fade from his ribs, leaving thick, sturdy bones in their place.

Jordan gasps, batting his eyes open.

And I can finally breathe again.