Bittersweet Magic (The Order #2)

That for once, just once, someone would hear her prayers and answer. That somewhere deep in the core of her there was a power. A power trapped inside. A power she had no fucking clue how to release. And even if she could, chances were she would still lose to the demoness.

Andarta seemed to grow until she towered over her, beautiful and oozing malevolence. Roz had never felt so small, so insignificant. The demoness extended her hand almost casually, and fire burst from her fingertips. The blast zapped Roz in the shoulder, whirling her around and slamming her to the floor. She lay for a moment, trying to catch her breath and control the pain that burned along her nerve endings. This was nothing. Andarta was playing with her. Things would get much worse before the end.

Piers was close by; she could sense his fear and despair. She’d made things worse. She should have known that. He’d blame himself for her death.

She struggled to her hands and knees, bracing herself for the next bolt. Andarta smiled as she stretched out her hand.

Then the smile froze. She lowered her arm, her eyes narrowing on something behind Roz. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Christian and her father had entered the chamber. They’d halted just inside. The Key was clenched in the Walker’s fist, and shock was stamped on both their faces.

“You can’t stop this,” Andarta said. “The challenge has been accepted.”

Ignoring her, the Walker strode over to where Asmodai stood beside Piers. He turned to the demon. “Get out. Now.”

“Why?”

“There’s no time for explanations. Just get out, or you die.”

Asmodai looked from the Walker to Roz and back again. Some expression flickered in his eyes, wonder, awe. She didn’t have time to analyze it because he whirled around and vanished from the chamber.

What the hell was going on?

The Walker reached out a hand toward her. He murmured something and inside her, the door was flung open.

“Fuck.”

The word came from Piers. He was staring at her. She peered down and saw her skin glowing with a pale luminescence. White light blazed out of her, lighting up the cavernous chamber, flaring off the black walls. She turned slowly. Andarta stood motionless, her eyes stretched wide.

Roz threw back her head as the power streamed through her, bathing her in raw energy. She was on fire but didn’t burn, the tongues of white flame licking over her skin.

Focusing her mind on Andarta, the light poured out from her. The demoness screamed, as the flames engulfed her body.

Shock held Roz immobile. What had she done? But she couldn’t stop it now. In panic, she turned to Piers, but the fire hadn’t touched him. He huddled against the wall, his hand shading his eyes. Christian stood beside him.

And all around her, the white fire burned.

The Walker approached the invisible barrier that encircled her and the burning demoness. “Rosamund, call it back. You can do it.”

Could she? Did she even want to? But the flames were spreading, leaking out of the circle, crawling along the floor, up the walls.

She closed her eyes. Visualized the door. Pushed it closed. At first, it resisted. She gave a shove, and the door slammed shut.

When she opened her eyes, the fire was gone. In front of her was a pile of ashes—all that remained of Andarta.





Epilogue


“She’s an angel,” the Walker said.

They were back in Piers’ office at the Order. Everyone was there. And they were all staring at her. Even the goddamn cat.

“Hey, stop gawping at me like I’m about to sprout wings and a halo and start singing halleluiah!” Roz twitched her shoulders as if she could already feel the appendages growing.

“Really? An angel?” Piers asked. He sounded dubious, and who could blame him. He was also studying her as though she might explode. She scowled instead.

“Quarter angel, actually,” the Walker replied. “Her mother was the child of a fallen angel.”

“What happened to him?” Roz asked. Her mother had always said she was an orphan.

“He was hunted down and executed, along with your grandmother, but the child—your mother—escaped.”

“But who killed them?”

“The angels, of course. If you think the fae don’t like their blood being spread about, you should see what the angels do.”

“Actually, I don’t think I do want to see.”

“What sort of angel?” Christian asked.

“There are different sorts?” This morning she hadn’t believed in angels. Now apparently, there were different types. And she was one of them.

“What sort do you think?” the Walker said. “You saw the light, saw what she did to Andarta.”

“She’s an Avenger.” Asmodai sounded far from happy. “Shit, all these years...” He cast her a look of awe mixed with fear.

What the hell could put that expression on the demon’s face? “An Avenger? What’s that?”

“A Warrior of God, a Wielder of the White Flame.” Christian grinned. “Also known as demons-bane.”