Testimony of Children (Alice Gray Book 2)

57

"Oh you vain woman," a shaky, feeble voice said from outside the circle.

The power shimmered through the circle's barrier distorting my view of the entrance to the tomb-like building. Angling my head on the altar, I squinted and strained to see who the newcomer was, but the circle was flush with magic. It was like oil on water, swirling and shifting on a surface defined by Mary's poppets.

But it was silver.

I could taste its strength in the tang of burning ozone in the air. I could hear it sing to me with the sweet but frenzied chimes of the silver leaves. At the sight of its beauty, its vitality, a possessive impulse pushed through my despair.

I was the owner of this power, this strength.

It was in me.

It was part of me.

How dare this pair of lunatics take it from me?

With that certainty, the circle's silver barrier thinned to allow me to see through to the small figure stood by the door. Satisfaction fizzled through me, warming my insides. The magic, it was doing my bidding.

An old man with leathery brown skin stood, his silver walking stick juddering against the edge of the circle. At first I thought he was having trouble supporting his weight; that his muscles were convulsing with age.

But that wasn't it.

His long white hair flew around his shoulders in silky strands, lifted by the power that he harnessed. Silver energy from the circle filtered through the walking stick, knitting the sequence of his magic into a strong, bright web, so beautiful that each painful breath caught in my throat.

Pride at its magnificence filled me, even though a tiny worm of doubt borrowed through my glee, telling me that I should be wary.
This was my power, but it wasn't mine alone.
Before my eyes, the old man's curved spine straightened out, his height much greater than had seemed possible when he was hunched over. His skin became smooth and soft, revealing vigorous beauty.

Silver eyes flashed at me as long brown hair whipped around, elevated by the static magic in the air.

Jonathan.

My father hated me and would do anything to get me out of the way so that he could have our power to himself. I was surprised that he wasn't applauding the Baroness's efforts and offering her a helping hand.

But that wasn't what he was doing.  And when I looked at his flashing silver eyes, I knew why. The outrage that had sparked my magic from the brink of failure was reflected back at me in my father's face. My greatest enemy had become my most powerful ally.

This was our power. We may still kill each other to control it, but the idea of someone else taking it from us was outrageous.

We would not allow it.

The Baroness dropped her arm to her side, her face full of fury, impotent to stop my father taking what she had worked so hard to have for herself.

"It's mine. I've waited centuries. You can't take it," she screeched, fury and dismay leeching out of her in equal measure.

"It is not yours. It could never be yours, you idiot," Jonathan boomed, his newfound vigour feeding his confidence, making him taller and louder than seemed physically possible.

The Baroness's face twisted into something sharp and monstrous, fangs descended as her posture shifted in readiness to launch at Jonathan. Claws erupted out of her fingers that curved into weapons, the silver dagger all but forgotten by a creature whose body was more lethal than any accessory could ever be.

My eyes widened as I watched the dagger topple to the floor. I took my chance. In one swift movement I swept my arm down, grabbed the dagger, before angling it upwards.

I plunged the dagger into the Baroness's chest just as she started forward to engage with my father. My awkward thrust wouldn't have been enough, but the momentum of her vampire speed helped it along. The harsh shriek of metal against metal as the sharp silver blade scraped past her steel-boned corset, followed by a thud as the knife's hilt hit tough vampire flesh, told me that I'd hit my mark.

"No," Mary screamed, running to get to the Baroness.

As she passed the second altar where Becca still lay, a large black paw reached up and swiped jagged claws across her neck. Mary's eyes went wide in shock, as her hand clutched her throat. Blood bubbled out and streamed over her small, wrinkled hands.

She turned to the huge panther that was licking her blood off its paw. "Naughty kitty," she gurgled before dropping to the ground.

Becca stretched out on the altar, backside in the air, head down. She was as unconcerned as though this was all in a days work for a panther shifter.

Suddenly her huge feline head whipped around to the corner where Mary had dumped what remained of Dominic. The scent of death told her the truth, but her bright yellow eyes still went impossibly wide as she took in the gory sight of mangled parts that made no sense to a sane mind.

An ear-splitting scream issued from the panther's lifted head. It reverberated through my skull, filling me up with the anguish and fury that consumed Becca, heart, mind and soul. The cry repeated again and again, ripped out of her in desperation, until a howl sounded in response from somewhere outside.

A wolf.

A flicker of hope lit at my core. Could it be Lucas?

Jonathan's back, and he's helping? Is that possible? Read on to find out!