Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
“What’s happening?” Finn demanded.
“They’re feeding on my consecrated ground. Consuming the magic to fuel whatever the hell that yellow shit is.”
Throwing more dirt at them would do nothing. It would just give them more magic to eat. He had to bring down the priest and the wheel. It was the only way.
Roman swung his hand, clawing at the air. Dark missiles tore out of the fog and streaked toward the priest.
The warrior shifted his stance. The line of yellow above him snapped into an eight-foot-tall sword dripping with magic. The sword sliced through the clumps of darkness, sucking them in. The missiles vanished.
Fuck.
The priest spun around and stabbed again. Pain, hole, the wheel sliding forward.
They were in deep shit.
There was always the other option.
No, anything but that. What was the point of making grand pronouncements if one didn’t follow through? He had his pride. He’d meant what he said—he was done. He had gotten this far on his power alone, and he wasn’t tapped out yet. There were still things he could do.
He began chanting low under his breath.
Magic appeared at the end of the driveway, so bright, so potent, so radiant, that for a second, he faltered.
The pair on the wheel felt it too. The warrior slipped to the side, trying to keep Roman and the newcomer in his view.
A cloaked figure strode toward his house.
The mercenaries pivoted toward it.
He knew this magic. It felt so achingly familiar, so right, like coming home after a long, terrible journey and finding the fire lit and the table set. It hugged him, and he had to fight the urge to step off the porch toward it.
The figure lowered their hood. A woman. A lovely woman with dark blond hair put away into a braid.
“That’s my sister!”
Sister… Gods took her away… The pieces fell into place. “Your sister is a Vasylisa?”
“Yes. Is that important?”
Damn it, Finn.
As long as Slavic neopagans existed, there would always be a Vasylisa. She was the heroine of countless folkloric tales, a woman with magic and secret knowledge, blessed by the pagan gods. Princes fought over her, dragons and evil undead kidnapped her, wandering heroes battled her for the privilege of her hand and the keys to her domain. She was the frog princess, the Amazon warrior, the guardian of the fire bird and the golden apples.
The first one showed up shortly after the Shift. When she was killed, another one manifested the powers and took her place. There had been several since, always one at a time. He’d met the previous Vasylisa years ago, and the meeting had been seared into his memory.
In the pantheon of Light and Dark, Vasylisas walked on the border, choosing their own path, an expression of female power and knowledge, heirs to both witches and warriors. They settled disputes when Slavic gods got in a tiff, they acted on prophecies to prevent disasters, and removed threats to the cosmic equilibrium. Some were stronger, others were weaker, but none should be taken lightly.
And they came in two varieties, Prekrasnaya and Premudraya. The Beautiful and the Wise. The first one was enchanting, alluring, and irresistible, relying on magical charm and manipulation to make armies kneel and entice powerful people to do her bidding. The second was a creature of deep magic, a sorceress with offensive powers, unpredictable and sharp.
And looking at her now, Roman had no idea which she was.
“Is she the Beautiful or the Wise?”
Finn made a face. “She’s my sister!”
Damn it. Roman resumed his chant.
The Vasylisa didn’t even look at the two mercenaries. Her voice was cold. “Leave.”
“What the fuck…” Wayne sounded resigned. Clearly, the man was at his limit for weird magical shit happening. “Who the fuck are you, lady? What are you doing here?”
The Vasylisa looked past them, straight at Roman. Their stares connected. He was full-on chanting now, building his magic into an intricate net and twisting it like a rubber band. She looked at him like they had met before, but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why. He would have remembered her. Absolutely.
Please be the Wise, please be the Wise…
“Look here,” Fulton started. “I’ve had just about enough of this bullshit. I’m a level III pyro. I don’t know what—”
The Vasylisa unsheathed a sword. It had a double-edged blade about thirty inches long, with a wide, shallow fuller and a simple copper cross guard. It looked like something that came out of the Kievan Rus’ burial grounds, an artifact from 1,200 years ago when the Varangian army of Viking mercenaries clashed with the Khazars over control of the fertile Eurasian plains.
The priest whirled. Long strands of yellow ichor stretched upward from the wheel’s rim. The wheel spun faster, and the strands of yellow spiraled up, forming a protective lattice around the wheel.
The Vasylisa’s sword burst into white flames.