Title: The White Horse (4/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Summary: Jim Kirk was a strange man. A silent man. No one knew much about him or, if they did, were not willing to say what they did know, especially to the town’s newest magical occupant. Not that Leonard McCoy cared. He had an old curse to track down and unravel by the year’s end. Meanwhile a killer was tracking him. AU.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3
or at AO3

Part Three

July 2013

With the practice of magic outlawed on the streets, there weren’t a lot of places for Leonard to go if he wanted something more dangerous than a parlor trick. For near a month, he made his way from one side of the Mississippi to the other hunting for the right kind of magic. Some Marked shut their doors in his face when they heard his request; others gave him a sly smile and a crook of a finger. By the third time he’d been led down a false path, he was lit with an anger that burned him from the inside out. He gave that bastard a permanently crooked nose and a left hand that would heal too slow and always ache.

Afterwards Leonard walked the city, slum to slum, feeling sick and hopeless and too aware of the shadow that had followed him from the conman’s house. He warned the fool to leave him the fuck alone.

But at the next turn of an alley, the shadow slid closer, its eyes veiled, and stepped into Leonard’s path. “He was wrong to trick you.” It held out a hand fisted around a wad of cash.

Leonard pocketed what he had been cheated out of without counting it. He doubted it was all there but nothing could be done about that now. “You should have warned me.”

The shadow, shorter and smaller than Leonard, met his gaze without fear. “I wanted to eat next month—but now I know it was wrong to trick you.”

“Because I’m like you.”

“Yeah.”

Leonard muttered a quiet fuck under his breath and dug out a cigarette. When the shadow looked hopeful, he said, “You can’t have one. You’re too young.”

He got a very sour “Fuck you” in return.

Leonard grunted, mildly amused, and took a long drag. He blew the smoke to the side and, a moment later, pulled the money back out of his pocket. He shoved half of it into the shadow’s grimy hands, turned away, and started walking again. He didn’t want thanks and he didn’t expect any. Some decisions were best made in one second and forgotten in the next.

It surprised him when the kid came after him and said in a rush, holding tightly onto Leonard’s forearm, “There’s somebody who can do it. He… found me, once, when nobody else could. My parents paid him a lot of money to get me back.”

Leonard considered whether or not that might be the truth. “Then why aren’t you still with your parents?”

A laugh, there and gone. “Would you believe me if I said street life was easier?”

Leonard didn’t answer that, couldn’t because he did believe the kid. If his own parents had been different, loved him less, he might have given up on them too.

The kid let go of his arm, muttered a name; then, before Leonard could express gratitude, he became a shadow again, just a shapeless figure in the dark that slowly ebbed away.

Leonard took the cigarette out of his mouth and crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe. It tasted too bitter for him to still enjoy it.

One more try, he promised himself, standing alone in the alleyway. One more. Joanna was counting on him.

The name was well-known in certain circles. Leonard learned plenty because now he knew the right questions to ask. With the knowledge, though, came warnings. People believed in what the mage could do but no one trusted him—and they gave Leonard more than one good reason why.

In the end, armed with a location, a number and a deep uncertainty, he still had to try. He drove for two days straight, and when he was close enough, he stopped at a payphone and made a call. Someone picked up on the second ring.

All sense and sanity fled. Leonard blurted out, “I need your help.” Then he held his breath, because that had been entirely the wrong thing to say between strangers.

But an answer came a second later, eerily calm: “Tell me.”

With a trembling in his hands, Leonard did.

A set of directions took Leonard out of the city limits and down a private, paved lane. Once parked in front of the property, he thought he might have stepped into another world and rubbed his palms against the rough fabric of his jeans to remind him of what was real. Gathering his courage, he left the safety of his truck.

A gateway, which Leonard went through cautiously, led to an inner yard, a square court with trees standing leafless. Odd that, he noted, as if in this place the sweltering heat of mid-summer was not allowed past the tall iron-wrought fence. He felt a chill and shivered.

A man opened the double doors at the opposite end and stepped down from a small terrace. His hair was vivid black against the pale stonework of the house. “You are Mr. McCoy,” he stated. “I welcome you to my home.”

Leonard tried not to show his surprise, released the breath he wanted to hold. The guy seemed neither young nor old, and power clung to him like tendrils of a vine. Though Leonard could not physically see where the power was emanating from, out of the corner of his eye he imagined it breaking through the roots of the trees, from a well deep in the earth, and spilling into the courtyard to find a willing receptacle. Earth magic was relatively familiar to Leonard, but the kind here felt foreign and he did not want that power to touch him.

“Take the side path,” the man said. “It will guard you.”

Leonard swallowed and nodded. Now that he was looking down, he could see the patterns inlaid along the ground. From the perspective of an outsider, it might be the artistic flare of a landscaping design. Leonard saw something else. He chose a white streak of granite that curved along the border of a flower bed. It carried him safely to the edge of the terrace.

His voice held his relief. “When we talked on the phone yesterday, Mr. Sarek, I got the impression you weren’t going to help me.”

“Sarek only.”

“Sarek,” Leonard repeated, then added sincerely, “So thanks—thank you for seeing me.”

“You have traveled a great distance, Mr. McCoy. It would be unkind to turn you away. Please, be welcome. Come inside.”

Sarek placed his hands behind his back and led the way. Leonard was far too desperate to do anything but follow.

The inside of the house was as intimidating as the outside. It was spacious, sparsely but expensively decorated, and austere, although not in an unfriendly way. Leonard did not get the sense that many people lived with Sarek. The air was too hushed, too still like it wasn’t used to being disturbed.

His attention became captivated by the adornments on a far wall.

“Ah, the fauchard,” Sarek remarked, noticing the direction of his guest’s gaze. “It was favored by medieval Europeans between the eleventh and fourteen century. Unfortunately its design did not make it as effective as they wished it to be.”

For being so old, the blade gleamed like it had been recently polished. “Looks like a scythe to me.”

“Yes, but it was never a tool for farming.”

Leonard figured he shouldn’t know more than that and reined in his curiosity. The two men crossed the broad room to a hallway that was long enough to run the length of the house. They passed several closed doors until Sarek halted before a door of mahogany. He skimmed his fingers across its surface then turned the knob. A spell unraveled and dissipated.

The room had no windows. The air inside smelled of pitch. Light from a series of wall sconces revealed a massive hearth, a charred ring in the center of the floor, and shelves upon shelves of books, some with metal locks on them.

Leonard’s heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t go farther than the doorway. “Do you normally invite strangers into your practice room, or am I special?”

The only thing he had in his back pocket was a lighter. It was the height of stupidity, he realized belatedly, to enter the home of another Marked without a way to defend himself. Leonard had just assumed he would be able to walk back out again, unmolested. What a fucking idiot!

And there was no doubt this guy had real power.

Sarek studied him with one eyebrow lifted. “Do you believe I intend you harm?”

“You could,” Leonard replied, then tried for menacing. “Or maybe I’m the one who might hurt you. Ever thought about that?”

Sarek didn’t even blink. “We are unknown to one another. This is a fact. However, if your intentions were at all malicious, Mr. McCoy, you would have not made it past the wards on the gate.”

“Oh,” muttered Leonard, feeling stupider. “Oh, right.”

Of course Sarek knew he didn’t have anything to fear from Leonard—but Leonard still had a feeling he ought to fear Sarek.

Then he remembered Joanna, and his fear became irrelevant.

“I brought what I could find,” he said, drawing a small pouch out of his jacket. He walked to a large round table, set the pouch down and pulled off the string that held it together. The cloth fell open to reveal its contents. “There’s not much left, you understand, of those days except an old book or two. The curse was cast during my great-grandfather’s time.”

Sarek stepped up to the table and lightly touched a lock of dark, brittle hair.

Leonard jammed his hands into his jean pockets. “It was my mother’s.” Next to it was another curl of hair, the color of gold whose sheen had grown dull. “My daughter’s, from a couple of years ago. I thought… well, I thought it might help to have the connection.”

“If they are in fact victims of a curse, these articles will be useful in tracking the maker.”

“Joanna’s not a victim,” Leonard said tightly. An admission of not yet lingered unspoken.

Sarek picked up the small leather-bound journal. “May I?”

Leonard shrugged then turned away as Sarek opened the journal up to the place where a page had been creased. While Sarek read the entry that served as a vague origin story of the curse, Leonard went to the nearest bookshelf and half-heartedly browsed the collection. Some of the books looked new, but most of them were thick and old and title-less. He didn’t dare touch any of them.

Inevitably the silence became too much. He circled back to Sarek and almost demanded, “Can you do it?”

Sarek was staring off into space, Leonard’s great-grandfather’s journal cradled loosely in his hands.

“Hey,” Leonard snapped, beginning to feel sick with his desperation again, “don’t bullshit me on this! Some quack in Memphis said you got some kind of fuckin’ immunity from the Feds, so you have to be damned good.”

It galled Leonard that his best chance to find the truth came from a man who played lapdog for a government that wanted his kind to live in fear. It couldn’t matter, though, because any help was better than none, better than continuing to let time slip away while his child died.

He was to the point of tearing out one of his own ribs and offering up as enticement for the Devil.

This might be close to that, he figured. Sarek, with his calm stance and ancient eyes, probably was a devil in disguise. He hadn’t mentioned the price for his magic yet, and Leonard couldn’t imagine the fee, whether it was monetary or not, being small.

He drew in a deep breath. It did little to calm him down.

Sarek had focused on the world around him again. He was looking at Leonard. “I believe I can help you.”

Leonard’s shoulders felt bow-string tight. “What’ll it cost?”

“I don’t ask a price for myself.”

“No,” he agreed, “the price is for the magic. What will it take?”

Sarek closed the journal and handed it to him. “That I cannot tell you, Mr. McCoy. What price does your healing magic demand?”

Leonard stopped breathing. “How did you…?”

“All mages are kindred. Just as you recognized my magic, I too recognized yours.” There was no disingenuousness in Sarek’s eyes. “Your hands are touched the most by it but the reservoir lives there.” He pointed to the center of Leonard’s chest.

Leonard shifted on his feet, uncomfortable at the thought that Sarek could piece him together so easily. “It’s no good to me right now, which is why I need you.”

“And you shall have my help. There is a spell—” Sarek’s voice cut off abruptly, and the man turned to the closed door.

A bad feeling swept down Leonard’s spine. “Sarek?”

“A moment” came the soft reply. The other man shaped the air in his hand, but whatever he saw in that shape did not pose a threat, as tension left him moments later. “I had forgotten,” he said.

Leonard knew that murmur wasn’t for him. He waited to have Sarek’s attention again. When he did have it, it came with a surprise:

“Would you like to meet my son?”

The question was so out-of-the-blue, so awkwardly normal, it rocked Leonard back onto his heels. “Excuse me?”

“My son has arrived.” Sarek clearly did not comprehend the strangeness of his sudden change in topic. “Allow me to make the introduction.”

“But—”

“If I do not do so at this time, Mr. McCoy,” Leonard was informed with an air of amusement, even if Sarek’s face gave away no inkling of his feelings, “it will only delay this day’s work. My son can be… a determined individual in regard to family affairs.”

Sarek was already heading for the door like Leonard had agreed to the request. Leonard closed his mouth and, seeing no other option, followed obediently.

They ended up on the other side of the house, where a tall dark-haired man stood with his back to them in a foyer, cell phone in hand. The man turned in their direction as Sarek strode forward, saying, “Spock.”

Leonard stayed some distance away because it wasn’t his place to be in the middle of a family reunion. And a reunion it did look like, for there was a large suitcase by the front door, white airport tags attached to one of its handles.

The man named Spock fixed his gaze over his father’s shoulder and scrutinized Leonard. Leonard scrutinized him back, making a point with his posture that he didn’t give a damn about whatever conclusions the guy came up with. So what if he wasn’t neatly dressed like Spock? If he was in old jeans and a tattered shirt instead of a pressed suit with a perfectly straight tie and a pin on the lapel which rivaled the pomposity of the—

Leonard felt a punch to his gut, his eyes tracking back to the pin. Without knowing it, he moved away, hands curling at his sides. “What is this?”

Spock stepped around his father, giving Leonard a clear view of the insignia on the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

Fuck.

Leonard’s first instinct was to flee. His body twitched as if to do exactly that.

“Mr. McCoy.” The whip-like crack of Sarek’s voice caught and held Leonard fast.

Leonard threw out an accusing finger. “Is this a fucking joke? He’s a Fed!” There was no hiding the fear beneath the hot anger of his words. Dread, something close to panic, started to weigh down his limbs. “You bastard, this whole time you planned to—”

“Do not speak to my father that way,” Spock interrupted, voice cold.

Leonard felt his upper lip curl.

Sarek lifted his hands. “Do not be alarmed, Mr. McCoy. It is my mistake that I did not recall today my son was to return home. Had I remembered, I would not have asked you to come. But what is done, is done. I give you my word: there is nothing you need fear while you are in this house.”

Leonard almost said “I don’t believe you” but Sarek held his eyes until Leonard swallowed the words.

“You came to me for help. Let me help you. Spock will not be involved.”

Spock shifted to give his father a look, seeming as startled by this pronouncement as Leonard. Leonard looked between the two men and didn’t know what the hell to think. He drew in a long breath and thought about how close he was to his goal. He’d come this far. Even if Sarek was a traitor, Leonard still needed his magic.

He cursed for the umpteenth time in his head and said, voice not shaking but not quite steady either, “Fine. I didn’t see him—” He stared hard at Spock. “—and he didn’t see me.”

Spock seemed unimpressed by the baleful glare and put his back to Leonard. “Father, I will unpack.”

Despite what Leonard had just said, the show of insolence scratched his temper. He bit out, “You got a problem, Spock?“

Spock picked up his suitcase. “I believe the person with the issue is you, sir.” The man glanced at his father, gaze curious.

“Leonard McCoy,” Sarek supplied.

Shit, thought Leonard, he should have used an alias.

“Hm,” said Spock. He assessed Leonard for the second time.

Leonard managed to hold his tongue. He hadn’t seemed to piss Spock off by just existing, but that didn’t mean shit. Most agents didn’t need more than a flimsy excuse to go after a Marked, so he sure as hell shouldn’t give this bastard a reason to look sideways at him.

It seemed the smart thing to do was to fix his gaze on an obscure spot above Spock’s head and pretend not to care as Spock studied him like an insect under a microscope.

“Spock,” Sarek’s voice broke into the tense silence in the foyer, “please come to the kitchen once you have finished unpacking.”

Spock inclined his head in agreement and headed for a set of stairs without glancing back. Leonard felt equally relieved and pissed.

Sarek waited until Spock was gone from sight to move past Leonard, ridiculously regal and serene, back the way they’d come. Leonard went after him, once again feeling like he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

“We’re going to do the spell?” he said, more as a hope than a question.

“No,” answered the mage. “We will go to the kitchen to wait for my son.”

In that moment, Leonard finally understood what all that raw power had cost Sarek over the years. The man was crazy.

And it was just Leonard’s usual dumb luck to be stuck with him.

While waiting, Sarek produced one of those giant books which had detailed maps of each state in the US. He explained to Leonard the theory of a locator spell. Spells left behind a residue that could be traced, and sometimes it took decades, even a century, for that residue to completely fade. It depended on the strength of the caster of the spell. Curses in particular were spells which required a lot of energy in order to be sustained for long periods of time, so a curse-worker was often more powerful than the average mage.

Sarek said the last location of the curse-maker was identified in stages, starting with a region and ending with, hopefully, a city. The McCoy family’s curse-maker was likely dead, but his final resting place would still hold some semblance of the power he held in life. And mages were often buried with relics of their magic.

“If he wasn’t burned,” Leonard pointed out. The family had to be important in high places if they wanted to claim a burial plot for a Marked. Even then, it didn’t always happen. They could taint the very earth, many people believed, in life or in death.

Sarek only replied, “Let us hope for the best.”

At that point Spock came into the kitchen and Leonard hated him for the interruption. Since Spock appeared quite unsurprised to once again be in Leonard’s presence, Leonard increased the intensity of his glowering. He didn’t want the fool to assume he approved of the company.

“Father, is there a reason why you wished to see me?”

“Have a seat, my son,” Sarek said even as he stood up and left the kitchen table. “There are many things I would speak of to you but in the essence of time I will only say, I am pleased you are home.”

Leonard turned his head to the side, suddenly and acutely wishing he was elsewhere.

“As am I. …Do you require my help in any matter?” The question was polite but cautiously phrased.

“No.”

However, it was the hesitation in Sarek’s voice that caused Leonard to look around. Sarek was watching Spock with a keen interest.

“There are some items I must prepare. Perhaps you would be amendable to looking after my guest while I work?”

Leonard jumped up from his chair. “I’ll go with you!”

Sarek had apparently already made up his mind. “I think it best if you waited here, Mr. McCoy.”

If Sarek’s son had a bemused face, he had to be wearing it right then. For his part, Leonard was re-evaluating his impression of Sarek: the man wasn’t just crazy, he was one hundred and ten percent bat-shit crazy.

“Excellent,” murmured Sarek, no doubt taking the silence in the kitchen as agreement. With his book of maps tucked under one arm, Sarek left Spock and Leonard to sort out themselves on their own.

Five minutes later of no conversation and surreptitious looks at Spock, a buzzing started under Leonard’s skin. He ignored it and chewed on his bottom lip as he thought.

There had to be a good reason why Sarek left him with Spock, only Leonard couldn’t figure it out. Was this a trap? Maybe a game the two played with some unsuspecting idiot?

Leonard didn’t want to be that idiot so why was he still sitting here? He should be with Sarek. Hell, he’d carelessly left the journal in the man’s care.

Leonard pushed away from the kitchen table, only to immediately hear, “If my father has asked you to wait, it would be wise to obey.”

He challenged, “Why?”

Spock had dark, emotionless eyes to match his emotionless face. That must be a lesson taught to all federal agents, Leonard concluded. Can’t have them giving away government secrets on the whim of a laugh. He gave a derisive snort.

Sarek’s son was odd in that he completely ignored Leonard’s belligerence and opted instead to ask, “Would you care for something to drink?”

Leonard figured his stare was answer enough, and kept on staring at the back of Spock’s head as the man went about the business of making himself tea. Just as Spock reached for a mug in a cupboard, a question unexpectedly burst out of him: “How the hell can you be one of them?“

Spock set the mug down on the kitchen counter. “I do not see how my choice of employment is your concern.”

Leonard took that statement for the bait that it was. “You know what they do to people like your father—or doesn’t that matter to you?” He dropped his hands under the table and dug his fingers into his knees, acknowledging that the bitter taste at the back of his throat was hatred. “Of course it doesn’t. You’re not like us, are you?”

Spock stiffened minutely but did turn to meet Leonard’s eyes. “You are correct. I am not like my father.”

Leonard’s upper lip wanted to curl again. “Thought so.” The hard edge to his tone grew harder. “Just so we’re clear… If you think I’ll let you put me in cuffs, you’re wrong. Fucking wrong,” he repeated.

Spock turned back to the empty mug and a kettle of boiling water on the stove. “I decided to visit my parent while on leave, Mr. McCoy. Unless you choose to make this event significant, I do not intend to return to duty until I must.”

Leonard didn’t know how to take that. If it was an olive branch, it was a poor one. Everyone knew Feds lied through their teeth. He couldn’t trust Spock. It would be a fatal mistake, he just knew it.

Resuming their silence seemed the better option. Leonard transferred his stare to the bay window. He could see the courtyard and the trees. Their bare branches swayed in a silence perhaps heavier than the one in the kitchen. He didn’t think there was any wind; nothing else in the courtyard moved.

Spock stood at the far end of the kitchen, mug in hand. He had his cell phone in the other. Its screen had to be inordinately fascinating.

A prickling started at the back of Leonard’s neck. He rubbed at it. Minutes passed but the feeling lingered. “Where’s your bathroom?” he asked abruptly.

Spock’s head came up. He blinked.

“Bathroom, restroom, toilet!” snapped Leonard, bristling.

Spock told him. Leonard jammed his hands into his pockets and strode out of the kitchen. As soon he judged he was far enough away from the kitchen, he went in search of Sarek.

Admittedly, Leonard got lost. Most of the doors in the never-ending hallway turned out to be mahogany. He came close to stomping back to the kitchen, thought about dragging that no-good Fed out by his ear and shaking Sarek’s location out of him.

Of course, it was likely he’d end up shot before he laid a hand on Spock. Spock might be on vacation but Leonard wasn’t foolish enough to think the man wasn’t wearing a holstered gun under that suit jacket while in the presence of the enemy.

So he did the next best thing: he stilled his breathing and asked politely to be shown the way. The hallway matched him in stillness for a few moments; then a tugging at his clothes led him. He took only a few steps before he remembered what else he had to fear besides Spock.

But it had to remain irrelevant. Had to. Sarek said he was going to help, and there had been no guile in that promise.

The tugging stopped at the door he sought. It was closed. Leonard laid a palm against the wood. To his relief, the protection spells had been disengaged. He considered knocking but decided against it because any unexpected sound could throw Sarek off-stride if he were in the middle of spell-casting. Instead, slow and with care, Leonard turned the knob.

A sense of wrongness washed over him before the door was fully open. He almost choked on it as he fumbled past the threshold.

The room was a nightmare. Everything had been torn asunder, splintered or destroyed. In the center of it all, Sarek lay prone across the line of the charred circle, eyes wide-open and clouded.

Fear tried to hold Leonard back; instinct drove him forward. He dropped to his knees and reached for Sarek at the same time he closed his eyes. As soon as they connected, he heard a wailing of sorrow and fury, distant, many voices caught in a windstorm, heard like a heartbeat invisible fists pounding against the outer walls of the house. He forced himself to ignore it all and concentrate, letting his magic spin out under his hands and into Sarek.

Emptiness where there was once life; life—a parody of it, utterly alien—where there should be none. He felt the moment the thing became aware of him.

It had a voice that sounded like shards of broken glass. Every shard cried at Leonard, You!

It had fingers of ice that let go of Sarek’s bones and reached for his.

And it had mad, restless eyes of the same lizard green that Leonard’s eyes turned to when he healed.

In every sense—body, mind, and magic—Leonard recoiled, full of the fear and knowledge that whatever had struck down Sarek was not finished. There was something it wanted but did not yet have. Something it recognized in him.

He came back to the room with a jerk, opened his eyes and found his fingers loosening from a stiff, unfamiliar position. Sarek was cold beneath him. Leonard stared at him helplessly. His mouth had the dry, papery taste of ash.

Nothing to be done. He knew it with deep certainty, didn’t need the voice of logic inside him to say it. There was nothing he could do, not for Sarek. His magic wasn’t the kind to bring back the dead.

A sudden noise, maybe a suppressed inhale or nearly inaudible gasp, told Leonard he was not alone. A shadow must have filled the doorway while he was in the thrall of a green-eyed monster and frozen there. It was Sarek’s son, Spock, his face colorless, expression shifting, cracking like a mask that couldn’t contain that which lived beneath it. For a moment, Leonard saw himself as Spock saw him—and the image was damning.

He took his hands off Sarek’s chest. He might have cried something inarticulate, a warning, but Spock came to life anyway, swiftly, and knelt by his father’s body. It was self-preservation that made Leonard push away and stand up. He swallowed hard as he watched Spock’s fingers press deep into Sarek’s neck. When those fingers trembled, Leonard had to look away.

The table was upturned, books shredded, pens scattered. By Leonard’s feet, a blackened jar had shattered and something foul leaked out of it, forming a puddle. Candles lay broken in half, their wicks was still smoking at one end. Although it seemed impossible, the hearth was a burnt-out shell in the wall.

And suddenly Leonard saw it in his desperate glance around the room: loose pages, the maps. Somehow, to some end before he had been attacked, Sarek had started the spell with them. Three bore marks. Leonard couldn’t tell if the marks were in red ink or blood.

He took a step towards them.

As if that was a catalyst, the air in the room changed. Leonard’s attention snapped back to Spock. Energy was gathering around the man, slowly at first, then starting to snowball until it nearly crackled. Spock lifted his head and locked eyes with Leonard. Though they were no longer emotionless, Leonard could understand nothing in those glazed eyes—not until the grief faded from them and the promise of death came.

Spock’s voice was an eerie, flat echo when he said, “What have you done?“

Leonard didn’t think. He snatched up the maps and ran.

He didn’t get far before under and around him, the house started trembling with rage. Different, my ass, Leonard thought as a nearby mirror fell off a wall and crashed to the floor. Spock took after his father.

He half-expected furniture to come flying at him, to knock him down, but when he ducked through a door to the outside he was unharmed. It wasn’t until Leonard had stumbled down the terrace steps and raced headlong across the courtyard that he realized the peril of mindless flight. He was on the wrong path.

Something nasty sank teeth into his ankles. Leonard jerked out of its grip and fell sideways with a near-cry, skinning the palms of his hands as he caught himself. One of the maps almost sailed away. Leonard grabbed at it and came back with an arm coated in gray. The ground, he realized in shock, was covered in ashes. Mixed with the dirt, it made the yard smell of iron, richer than a man’s blood.

His heart leapt at a crack of thunder. The thunder came again, then once more but not from the sky: one after the other, limbs were snapping off the trees and melting like bones in fire. Ash was all they left behind. The thing which had killed Sarek was killing his magic too.

Leonard shook off the wild darkness trying to ensnare him and rolled to his feet. He fought and swore his way from the dying magic until he was completely free of it, or it was too weak to fight him. He didn’t know. At last he burst through the gate and into a different world, a place of hot, shrunken shadows and the shimmering glare of noon. From there, Leonard did the only sensible thing—the very thing he had been doing all along: he kept running.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• The White Horse (18/18) – from May 12, 2014
• The White Horse (17/18) – from May 10, 2014
• The White Horse (16/18) – from May 10, 2014
• The White Horse (15/16) – from April 4, 2014
• The White Horse (14/16) – from March 7, 2014

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