Illusion: Book Four of the Grimoire Saga (3 page)

“What is it?” he asked.

She forced a smile. “Nothing.”

“Whatever you say, beautiful,” he said, mimicking her. He shook his head.

“Where does this tunnel lead?” she asked, changing topic.

“Not quite where we need to go but close. We’d get there faster if the little fur ball could teleport us,” he added, nodding to Flick.

Kara laughed. “And how many people can you teleport at once, Braeden?”

He glanced over his shoulder and smirked. Kara’s heart fluttered.

Flick cooed. She scratched his ear, a glimmer of gratitude blossoming in her chest. They’d already tested Flick’s teleporting ability, but he’d only been able to teleport four at a time. Apparently, the little guy had limits beyond lichgates. Even though it was just her and Braeden this time, there would be almost a dozen in their elite team when they reached the Stele. They couldn’t practice using Flick if they’d have to fight their way in during the real battle.

A new hallway branched off to the left. A pinprick of orange light danced in the depths of this new corridor, the rest drowned in shadow. Braeden passed it without a glance. Another hall appeared on their right, and another, and a fourth, all cast in darkness. Kara shuddered, the hairs on her neck standing on end. Her imagination toyed with her, casting silhouettes in the flickers of firelight.

Braeden finally paused a few minutes later in front of a hallway like all the rest. Kara kept close, savoring the warmth of his body as it soothed her racing heart. She tensed, eager to slip out of their secret passage.

A few yards later, a wooden door blocked the tunnel, its thick planks and black iron binding illuminated by a single torch. A metal plate covered a small stretch of the door at eye-level, its ends bent upward. Braeden pinched the bent metal and slid it aside to reveal a blip of yellow in the wood—a peep hole. Kara cringed at the grate of iron scraping against its holdings. Braeden mumbled something and leaned in, eye flicking every which way. He set a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Clear,” he whispered.

He twisted the knob and pushed the door open, shoulders tense. The door groaned once. The screams of the battle below filtered through the opening. The musk of burning pine swam through Kara’s nose. She gagged and swallowed hard, legs shaking. Braeden crept through. She followed.

The new hallway matched all the rest outside their secret tunnel: sconces lined the rock every dozen feet on one side, with windows in between. The wall they’d come through held nothing but bare stone. She closed the door, last one through, and it disappeared into the wall, its wooden frame masked by the same white stone that covered the fort.

Braeden stole down the hallway. Kara kept up, a foot behind him. The hall turned right. He hesitated and leaned into the rock, peering around the corner.

He nodded, ushering her forward with a wave of his hand.

She hurried around the corner, still inches behind him. Flick hummed once in her ear, perhaps for moral support, as another empty hallway came into view. It stretched for hundreds of feet, nothing but firelight and open windows. Kara tensed. Too many empty hallways, all of them identical. It grated on her nerves. Goosebumps raced along her arms, and she balled her hands into fists to quell the anxiety.

A set of brown double doors filled a chunk of the inner wall. Braeden grabbed the handle and took a deep breath. Kara summoned her favorite attack—the red sparks she’d finally mastered not long ago. It could either heal or destroy, depending on its creator’s intentions. In a heartbeat, the sparks could heal someone on the brink of death or disarm nearly any opponent. It could sometimes even kill, depending on how much emotion the creator employed.

The red light crackled over her palm as she prepared for whatever awaited them. Flick’s claws dug deeper into her shoulder. With the lack of resistance she’d seen since entering the fort, they were probably going to face one of two scenarios: either all of the Ayavelian elite were outside battling Gavin, Aurora, Frine, and Evelyn, or a good chunk stayed behind to guard the stand-in Carden and therefore left the hallways empty.

Kara hoped for option one.

Braeden inched one door open and peeked inside, leaving the other closed as a barrier between them and whatever waited for them. Kara knelt and slid her head below his chin to get a view through the crack as well.

Several dozen soldiers filled the room, standing a few feet apart in at least two dozen rows across the floor. Some faced a second door against the opposite wall, while others faced her. On a platform in the center, a Stelian stood with his hands on his hips. He twisted his head toward her door. Several soldiers met her eye. The Stelian yelled an order she didn’t catch. Within seconds, all nearby guards shouted once in unison and drew their swords.

Kara cursed under her breath. The impostor Carden had gone so far as to change form—that was dedication to the role.

She’d
really
wanted option one.

Chapter 2

Costs

Braeden slammed the door, unprepared for the flood of guards waiting for him in the makeshift throne room. His heart sped along. Panic fluttered through his gut, blending with a rush of excitement. From Kara’s shoulder, Flick cooed, ears pinned to his tiny head in apparent worry. Braeden grabbed Kara’s side—careful to avoid her pet—and pulled her into his chest, hiding behind the still-closed door.

But he’d seen what he came for: the fake Carden and the flag. The impostor stood on an elevated platform, and a giant black flag hung on the wall behind him to represent the royal Stelian coat of arms. All Braeden had to do was rip off the Ayavelian’s vest and grab the flag. The game would be over.

He took a deep breath. Thuds rained against the other side of the door, pounding against his back. He tensed, dragging his fingernails against the wood. Magic weighed on his shoulders as he wove a charm into the planks, giving the lock unnatural strength against the onslaught until he was ready to go in. The muscles in his back tightened from the strain. He tensed his jaw. The door shook as attacks beat on it from the other side, but it held.

Braeden paused, running through his options: charge in, swords drawn—too risky; find another way into the room—a waste of time, as the Ayavelian elite had already blocked the only other entrance he’d seen. With a defensive army of that size, he had few choices.

His fingers tightened around Kara’s arms as his mind raced. She caught his eye, her blond hair curling around her neck as she lifted her chin. A dusting of freckles on her nose distracted him for a moment. Flick chirped, his wide eyes narrowing.

It clicked. Relief crashed along his spine. Braeden grinned.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

“Teleport to the guard posing as Carden and take him to the roof. It’ll be easier to get his vest when he’s away from the horde.”

She nodded. “In the real fight, we’d leave everyone else?”

Braeden nodded. “It’s the easiest way.”

“I’m not sure I like this, but we’ll discuss that more later. For now, let’s see if it works.”

Braeden loosened his hold on her but kept one hand on her back so that the teleportation wouldn’t leave him in the hall. He tensed, ready to grab the impostor the moment he had the chance. They wouldn’t have much time to get in and out.

Kara rubbed Flick’s head. “Ready?”

Braeden nodded.

Crack!

The hallway disappeared, replaced by a sea of Ayavelian helmets. He stood on the platform, inches from the back of the impostor. Many Ayavelian faces turned to him, their mouths open and eyes wide in confusion. A man in the crowd yelled something Braeden couldn’t understand.

The impostor Carden twisted around, backing toward the platform stairs as he drew his sword. The Ayavelian elite rushed the platform, their war cries as loud as the Stelian imposter’s.

Braeden reached for the Carden-lookalike’s vest, but his fingers instead gripped the shirt collar. He yanked the guard closer. The sting of sweat rushed through Braeden’s nose. The guard wrapped his hand around Braeden’s and lifted his sword, ready to strike.

Braeden grabbed Kara’s hand and squeezed, giving the signal to go. But he missed his window of opportunity by seconds.

Three guards reached the impostor, grabbing his arms. They pulled, testing Braeden’s grasp of the man’s shirt. His fingers strained, cracking as he kept hold of the Carden stand-in. Two more raised their swords, eyes on Braeden’s red vest.

“Let’s go!” he yelled.

A wave of nausea hit him square in the jaw like a punch to the face. His cheeks burned. His fingers relaxed, the Stelian’s shirt slipping from his grip. He doubled over. A sword sailed overhead, where his neck would have been. Kara’s hand slipped from his. The room spun, and he knelt to keep his balance. White dots buzzed along his vision. Shadows crept toward him, blocking out the light.

The nausea dissolved, though his stomach still churned. Shadows stretched over him, the darkness dotted with silver glints. He tensed his shoulders, summoning the air to him. It swirled about his head in a protective orb, offering a thin layer between him and his attackers. With a grunt, he released it. Air blasted in every direction, clearing the space around him and giving him enough room to breathe. Men screamed. The shadows disappeared.

Braeden shook his head.

What the hell happened?

He examined the room, trying to make sense of the chaos. The Stelian impostor sat on the floor ten feet off, hand on his head as if he, too, experienced the wave of nausea.

Kara was gone.

Braeden reached for the impostor’s vest. A sword glinted in his periphery. The flat end smacked against his wrist. Something snapped. Pain shot up his arm and into his teeth. He cursed and reeled back, nursing his arm as his royal blood healed the injury. The bones popped back into place within seconds.

He stood, summoning a blade of air into his palm. A soldier stood a few feet off, sword raised for another strike. Braeden released a blast of air at his attacker. The soldier buckled inward and flew into the crowd. His torso rammed the heads of three other men, knocking them to the stone floor with a clatter of metal and snapping bones.

Braeden glanced around, eyes darting every which way. He had to find Kara. His breath came in short bursts. Where—?

A blond head peeked above the seat of white and silver. Red sparks sizzled in the air above her. Men yelped. Two fell, revealing a hole wide enough to show her face. She frowned and aimed for another soldier. Her gaze shifted as he found her, catching his eye. Her eyes shifted again to the space just to his right. She gasped.

Braeden ducked out of instinct. His knee cracked as he fell. A blast of lightning sailed over his shoulder.

He twisted around and cocked his left fist. A soldier hesitated two feet away, sword raised. Braeden shot his fist into the soldier’s gut. The man groaned and fell to his knees, coughing. Braeden ripped off his vest and released the paper, letting it float in the air on its way to the floor.

The impostor Carden inched backward, yelling orders Braeden still couldn’t understand—likely the Ayavelian tongue. Guard after guard poured into the space between them, blocking his only hope at victory with dozens of white vests. Braeden shook out his shoulders and lunged.

He aimed a fireball at one soldier’s vest, releasing the flames. It hit. The paper burned, dissolving into ash. The soldier grumbled and pushed through the crowd, officially “dead.”

But three more replaced him. And three more. And more. For every vest he destroyed, several more appeared.

Braeden glanced around, letting instinct take hold of his attacks while he looked for the Carden impostor. A Stelian head rose above the Ayavelians about ten feet off. The man smirked and receded, inching toward the banner, all but taunting Braeden with both his goals just out of reach.

Braeden cursed and pushed through the crowd, blasting waves of air and fire with equal abandon. He didn’t care. He was an Heir, soon to be Blood, and he would not be bested by a swarm.

Sweat stung his nose. Cursing and war cries blasted his ears until a ringing began in the back of his mind. His muscles groaned, protesting the onslaught. A sting pierced his calf, but he pressed on.

Someone tugged at his vest. The paper ripped. He elbowed the nearest head. A man groaned and sank to the floor. More bodies pressed inward. Braeden released another wave of air, securing two seconds of space enough to move. He checked his vest—only a small tear in the bottom right. He sighed and pushed on toward the Stelian—a beacon of gray in a sea of white. He would end this. Game or not, he had to win.

If he couldn’t win a game, how could he possibly win against his father?