Spellmaker

The attacker pushed down on the dagger with both hands. He was strong, but not as strong as Bacchus.

Bacchus’s other hand flew up, catching the man’s wrist, and he rolled until he had the dagger pinned to the floor, whereupon he bound it with a fuse spell. When the man tried to pull it up, the dagger remained stuck to the carpet.

Bacchus bucked him off, but the assailant wasn’t stupid. He left the dagger and danced back, stepping on Master Hill’s outstretched arm. The air in front of him shimmered, and although Bacchus could not see the rune, he recognized it as a density alteration spell. He pushed through it, his movement slowed by half. As he cast a spell to lighten the air, the black-clad man grabbed a post of the bed and, with two quick state-changing spells, pulled a three-foot length of it free, while the rest liquefied and splashed against the floor, steaming.

The air thinned, and Bacchus charged.

The wooden pole gleamed as it hardened into something as deadly as steel in the attacker’s hand. He raised it to strike—not Bacchus, but Master Hill.

Bacchus leapt and grabbed the pole before it made contact, and the force behind it radiated up his arm. He gritted his teeth and wrestled with the man. Tried to liquefy the pole, but the blasted spellmaker kept hardening it, canceling out his spell.

So Bacchus changed tactics and made it radiate heat instead.

The man cursed—the first Bacchus had heard his voice, although he couldn’t place it—and dropped the scalding wood. It threatened to light the carpet on fire, but Bacchus couldn’t take his attention away from the aspector. He didn’t dare try to summon static and create lightning for risk of hurting Master Hill.

But this man didn’t care about Master Hill’s well-being. The air crackled.

Bacchus reeled back and punched the spellmaker in the face. The man stumbled, but as Bacchus moved to swing again, his arm slowed, the air suddenly too dense to carry his momentum.

An unexpected gust spell collided with him, whisking him off his feet and across the room until his back slammed into the half-demolished door. It cracked under his weight, and he fell to the floor in a burst of splinters. His head spun, and by the time he reoriented himself, the assailant stood over him, armed with a nine-inch splinter shaped like a stake. The wood gleamed with a hardening spell.

The air crackled. Lightning sparked across Bacchus’s vision. He waited for a fiery burn that never came. Blinking his eyes clear, he saw two things at once: the attacker’s clothes smoking and Ruth Hill falling from her propped elbow, her hand outstretched. The spell she’d used to save him had clearly zapped her remaining strength.

The man groaned and dropped his weapon. He cast another thickening spell to the air, so strong it became hard to breathe. In the few seconds it bought him, the assailant leapt for the window and disappeared between the curtains, fleeing.

Bacchus reverted the air density to normal and bolted after him, stopping at the edge of the balcony. He thought he saw movement down below—the aspector could have easily slowed his fall with more density spells—but Master Hill was gravely injured. Bacchus couldn’t risk leaving her side.

Rushing back into the room, he grabbed an afghan from her bed and raced to press the thick cloth against her torso, where at least one stab wound bloomed.

Perhaps sensing safety, one of Master Hill’s servants peeked into the room.

“Get a doctor!” Bacchus barked.

“H-He’s on his way.” The maid’s round eyes took in Master Hill’s supine form.

“Call for a surgeon,” Bacchus said, trying to remain calm. The muscles in his arms quivered, and his heart pounded like that of an overworked horse. “She needs a surgeon.”

“I-I will, but the doctor, he’s a temporal aspector, sir. He should be able to slow it down.”

“But not stop it. Get a surgeon.”

The servant nodded and fled down the hall.

Master Hill moaned under the pressure on her torso.

“Hold on, Ruth,” Bacchus murmured, refusing to let up. “Hold on a little longer.”

CHAPTER 12

Thus far, Ogden had received two articles through the spirit line from the United States: one from the Boston Herald and another from the New York Times.

Elsie sat with him in his sitting room, looking over the information under the guise that he was helping her with her wedding finances. Emmeline remained innocent of the situation they were in, and they intended to keep it that way. Like with the British articles, Elsie had found the lines she wanted via their spelling, only this time, the articles were predominantly in American English, with the coded lines in British English.