A Battle of Blood and Stone (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 4)

I swing it above my head, put my other hand to the hilt, and then throw it straight at Carrick. In an impressive and, I must say, incredibly sexy show of his powers, he merely sidesteps slightly so the ax flies by him. But even more impressive and totally the hottest thing ever is when his hand shoots out and he catches the rotating ax perfectly by the handle as it starts to whiz by him.

With a wave of his hand, it disappears. “Hit me with something else.”

I hold my hand out, palm up, and a fireball erupts. It feels cool as it hovers above my skin. I note this came so easy and automatically that I didn’t feel my magic fire up with warmth in my chest, but rather the warmth seems to be just hovering there in the background.

In other words, it took little effort.

With exaggerated motions, I act like a pitcher on the big-league mound. Bringing the ball to my chest, stepping back with one foot, and then raising the other knee high before firing the flaming orb at Carrick.

He’s grinning broadly at my playfulness as he conjures a wall of water to douse the flames. When the two magics hit, they evaporate into nothing but steam.

“Again,” he demands.

I push both hands out toward him to conjure up a fierce wind. It flows across the gym and hits Carrick so forcefully he has to lean into it to stay upright. He holds it for a bit and his feet actually start to slide backward, but then he does some type of witchy mojo that turns the wind back at me.

It hits me so hard I go windmilling backward until I fall on my butt while Carrick doubles over with laughter.

Glaring at him, I just wait it out until he’s finished. When he straightens, he tips his head with an impish smile of apology. “Sorry. But on the plus side, you are throwing magic almost effortlessly. You just have to be ready sometimes to fail to meet your objective or have it turned around on you. You should have thrown that bubble shield against the wind.”

He’s right, of course. I need to be thinking moves ahead, like a chess game. I can’t assume what I throw is going to work. In fact, I think his point is to assume it won’t.

Carrick motions with his hands to get up, and I do. “Now, throw something at me with the intent to kill, not harm. You weren’t all that serious before.”

“No,” I say, aghast. “I’m absolutely not going to do that.”

“Come on, Finley,” he snaps, bracing his hands on his hips like he’s a coach getting ready to lecture. “You have to be committed to kill. Playtime is over.”

I shake my head, cross my arms. “I could never muster up intent to kill you.”

“But you can’t kill me,” he points out. “So take that worry off your plate.”

“We don’t know that I can’t kill you,” I say softly, a sudden realization hitting me. It’s one thing for Sarvel to suggest my powers are limitless and indefinable, and something else to practice throwing fireballs to fight against Dark Fae and the like.

But it’s a completely different thing to understand that there’s a possibility I might have the power inside of me to kill a demi-god.

I think it’s a long shot. The gods could always bring him back in the snap of a finger. Chances are, I don’t have that type of ability.

However… I am an anomaly. No human has been able to do the things I’ve done, so we can’t be sure about anything.

I shake my head again. “Not going to do it.”

“Finley,” he admonishes, moving toward me.

“No. Not going to it,” I insist. “I can kill evil things, but I’m not going to throw around killing magic to test the theory you’re indestructible.”

“I am,” he replies smoothly.

“I’m sure Lucien wouldn’t agree,” I snap, then immediately regret it by the flash of pain that flickers in his eyes.

Of course, it was just a flicker. Carrick is far more adept at keeping his emotions from showing, but I’m absolutely horrified I said that to him. I open my mouth up to start a rush of apologies.

Carrick truly knows me better than I know myself, so before I can get a word out, he presses a hand over my mouth. “I know you didn’t mean that, and I also think it’s a valid reminder that we can’t know anything absolutely.”

When he removes his hand, I gush, “I am so fucking sorry, Carrick.”

His hand goes back over my mouth, and he shakes his head. “It’s fine. Besides, I’m confident Lucien isn’t gone for good.”

I let those words settle over me as I study his expression, which seems confident in that prediction. His bearing is commanding, as always, and I don’t sense a single vibe of worry from him.