“I investigate threats. Whatever aether ability you have, you can’t control it. You can barely kill a hellboar construct without the assistance of the planet’s gravity.” He huffs a low laugh, like he’s been laughing at me about that trial ever since it happened.
I’m so confused by Sel’s comments—and by how much he’s actually talking to me—that I stop walking right then and there. Had I misjudged him? Had Nick? Or is Sel operating just as he always has—treating any and everyone as a threat until his own eyes and facts prove otherwise? Up until an hour ago I qualified, but now… I don’t? I don’t expect to be so insulted, but after all this time and all those menacing glares suggesting bodily harm, I absolutely am. I’m insulted and annoyed. How dare he—
“Are you going to stand there gawking in the dark?” Sel snaps his left fingers to produce a new mage flame, and rotates his other wrist to extinguish the first so he can use that hand to steady himself against a low support beam. I follow his gaze ahead where there’s a rise of dirt that we’ll need to climb over to pass. “Or is there something else you’d like to add?”
“But—but what about all that talk of enthralling Nick?” I sputter. “And me making a fool of him? And… and… how I don’t belong? Were you just saying all of that to be an ass?”
“Oh no, I meant every word. Because I thought you were Shadowborn, I hoped to provoke you into an emotional response—the more negative the better, as that’s what demons are drawn to, even within themselves. It worked, in a way, albeit not how I’d imagined.” He sighs and turns around, a bored expression on his face. “As for Nicholas, if you cause a problem or distract him from his path to the throne, I won’t hesitate to turn you in to the Regents and tell their Merlins exactly how to trigger you so they can throw you in a lab somewhere and investigate you for themselves.”
A chill runs through me at his words. Is that what would happen? Nick never said—
“If you continue through initiation as you are, you’ll undoubtedly fail the combat trial, which means I only need to wait a few weeks to be rid of you. Something tells me that with Nicholas’s obnoxiously earnest assistance, you’ll find some loophole out of your Page status and the chapter as a whole. Maybe he’ll use your non-Vassal background to call for an exception to lifelong membership, claiming you were a failed experiment. Or perhaps he’ll call in a favor with his father, who will grant it out of guilt and appreciation that his son has finally accepted his birthright. Then, when you leave us, you won’t break the Code of Secrecy to expose the Order since you genuinely care for Nicholas, and doing so would make our once and future king’s life that much harder, hindering our mission. Do I have the right of it?”
My jaw almost hits the dirt floor.
“Thought as much. In short, right now I have far greater concerns than the ‘mystery of you,’ not the least of which is the likely imminence of Camlann. Such concerns also include the truly active threats to both Nicholas’s life and the chapter I am Oathbound to protect.” The type of threats that I will be punished for—painfully—if I don’t pursue them. He doesn’t add that next bit, but I hear it anyway, remembering what Lord Davis said about Sel’s Kingsmage Oath burning a hole through his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head, “I just can’t get over the fact that you have definitely, definitely made violent threats on my life and now you’re just… not.”
“Don’t think for a second that I didn’t mean those violent threats, because I absolutely did. Still do, to be quite honest, should you force my hand. At the moment, however, I’m reconsidering how I described you,” he murmurs, climbing gracefully over the small hill. “I should have called you both silly and self-centered.”
I’m fuming, but I follow behind him in silence. I don’t want to give him any more verbal ammunition.
* * *
Sel seems to know where he’s going, because we stop at a small round cave about ten minutes later and he points up at an opening between the petrified beams. “This door will bring us to the surface on the far side of campus. There’s an illusioned lockbox of metal weapons in the woods if the foxes have found us somehow, but they’d have to possess more than the average demon’s sense of smell to track us here. I’ll go first, give the clear, and then I’ll pull you up.”
I nod and watch as he begins murmuring again. The Welsh sounds similar to the sounds of the swyns William says when he’s healing. Sel’s fingers create shapes in the air above our heads; then, in a reverse of the last time, he punches up with an open palm. A door above bangs open.
Sel crouches, leaps the vertical equivalent of twice his own height, and then lands on the grass beside the door. After a moment, he whispers that we’re clear and reaches down to pull me to the surface.
We emerge right where Sel said we would: a low stone wall marking the campus perimeter and beyond that, the thick forests that belong to the town of Chapel Hill. Sel’s back is turned to the base of the wide oak we’ve emerged from, twisting his palms to hide its aether door again, when the hairs on the nape of my neck rise in warning.
When Sel shouts, “Get down!” my body doesn’t argue. I throw myself to the ground in time to see a hellfox sailing overhead, its skull colliding with the side of the mighty oak with a loud, ground-shaking crack.
While it recovers, a second fox screeches, tackling Sel. It’s heavy paws and weight knock him to the ground. Like with the uchel, Sel and the fox are tumbling, rolling on the grass in a blur of black clothes and smoky-green scales.
Sel must glance my way, because he shouts in warning just as the third fox lunges toward where I’ve landed on the ground. His warning gives me just enough time to roll. Jaws snap by my right ear—where my face had been a split second earlier.
There’s an awful tearing sound, and a high-pitched yowl cuts the air.
Sel tore something off his opponent.
The fox beside me runs to its brethren’s aid, and then Sel is screaming, trying to wrestle both at once without calling any aether.
He needs weapons.
I scramble to my feet, jump over the wall, and sprint toward the woods and the illusioned lockbox. Between one blink and the next, a hellfox appears in front of me. Its head is split open in the middle, glowing-green aether oozing from the jagged crack: the fox that hit the tree.
I stumble. Trip over my own feet. My back hits the ground. Hard. The breath is knocked out of me.
I’m writhing in the grass, choking for air, my brain screaming for it, but I can’t scream. Not even when the hellfox lowers its head, pinning me with beady black eyes—and leaps.
It’s going to land claws out. Right on top of me.
I’m going to die.
I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for its heavy weight and razor-sharp teeth. In a desperate, untrained move, I swing one fist up in a wild punch.
There’s a howling scream, a deep squelching sound, a hot, burning weight on my chest, then blackness swells up to take me.
* * *
Something hot and thick is pulsing rapidly against my fingers.