To heal a Rogue

BRADLEY

”Corner her,” I growled, the words barely intelligible through my distorted jaw.

Madeline understood. She advanced from the left, her hands weaving patterns in the air that left trails of golden light. I came from the right, low and fast, using the tables and overturned carts as cover. Willow retreated until her back hit the junction of two walls. Her eyes darted between us, and for the first time, I saw something other than confidence there. I saw the calculation turning to concern.

”You can’t hold that shield forever,” Madeline told her. The witch’s voice was steady, conversational, like they were discussing weather. ”Every spell you cast to heal yourself is power you’re wasting. Mana can be expended after all. It is basic arithmetic.”

”Shut up,” Willow snapped. She threw a volley of magical shards, crystal formations that grew from the air itself and shot toward us like arrows.

I batted two aside. One caught my shoulder, burying itself an inch deep before I ripped it free. The pain was distant, because I could not have cared less. My attention was tunneled, ensuring the witch, who was the only lead we had left, did not. Madeline simply raised a barrier, the golden light absorbing the impacts with flashes of heat and light.

Then the reinforcements arrived.

The door we had sealed earlier exploded inward, not from magic but from the other side. Sentinels poured through, half a dozen of them, and they brought violence with them. Two shifted immediately, their bodies contorting into massive wolf forms that filled the hallway with fur and fangs. The others kept their human shapes but raised their weapons, silver bullets gleaming in the chambered rounds.

”Surround her,” I ordered, my voice returning as the shift began to recede slightly. Not fully human yet, but something closer to it. Enough to think tactically again. ”This is a containment protocol. Do not kill unless it absolutely has to happen.”

They formed a ring, tightening like a noose. Willow looked at the guns, at the wolves, at Madeline and me standing in front of her with murder in our eyes. She laughed, but it sounded forced now, breathless.

”You think this is victory?” she asked. She was breathing hard. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. The borrowed uniform hung loose on her frame, torn and bloodied. ”You think catching me changes anything?”

”It changes tonight,” I replied. I took a step closer. The circle tightened another foot. ”And tonight is all I need.”

She struck then, not at Madeline or me, but at the sentinels. A wave of force erupted from her in all directions, a shockwave of pure kinetic energy that lifted the wolf-forms off their feet and sent them crashing into the walls. The human sentinels fired. The shots went wide as the pressure wave knocked their aim aside.

I rode the blast, digging my claws into the floor to anchor myself, and I lunged through the dissipating energy. I caught her around the waist. She hammered at my back with fists that burned with cold fire, each impact sending agony radiating through my ribs, but I didn’t let go. I drove forward, carrying her with me, and slammed her into the wall where the two corridors met.

Her head cracked against the plaster. Her eyes rolled. For a moment, the light in them dimmed.

”Now,” I roared.

The sentinels recovered. The wolves shook themselves and closed in. Guns raised, steady this time, targeting her center mass. Madeline stepped forward, her hands glowing brighter than before, preparing some binding spell or perhaps a knockout blow or whatever final mercy she intended to deliver.

Willow sagged in my grip. Her magic flickered. I saw it happen, the way the air around her stopped humming with power, the way her skin stopped glowing with that infernal light. Her shield cracked. It didn’t shatter dramatically. It simply failed, like a machine running out of fuel.

Two shots then rang out almost immediately.

The bullets took her in the thigh and shoulder. She screamed, a raw, animal sound, and more blood sprayed across my face, hot and copper-sweet. I kept her pinned, my forearm against her throat, my body weight holding her against the wall. She thrashed, trying to summon enough magic to throw me off, but I could feel the weakness in her now. The frantic, desperate beat of her pulse. The shallow gasping.

”Your body is out of mana,” Madeline said quietly. She approached slowly, carefully, like she was approaching a wounded predator that might still have one bite left. ”You are done.”

Willow glared at her. Blood bubbled at her lips. ”I... am... not... done. This is only the beginning.”

”Let us see about that,” Madeline insisted. She raised her hand, palm up, and blew.

Dust. Something crystalline, shimmering or at least close to it, like ground glass mixed with starlight, flew from her hand into Willow’s face. The witch tried to turn away, tried to hold her breath, but I had her head pinned. She inhaled involuntarily, choking on the powder, and her eyes went wide.

”Sleep now,” Madeline commanded.

Willow’s body immediately went limp. Her head fell forward against my shoulder, all tension leaving her muscles at once. She became dead weight in my arms, unconscious and heavy, the fight draining out of her like water from a broken cup.

I held her there for a moment, breathing hard, my heart still hammering against my ribs. The berserker rage receded slowly, leaving me with the shaking aftermath. I felt it all. The cold sweat, the realization that I had been shot at least twice and hadn’t noticed. My shoulder burned, and even my ribs ached with every breath.

I lowered her to the floor, gently despite everything, and stepped back.

Madeline turned to me. Her face was splattered with blood and dust, her hair coming loose from its braid, but her eyes were clear and professional. ”I do think keeping her alive is a risk, but I am sure you have your reasons for needing her alive,” she said.

I nodded, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. ”Yes. I and the royal family appreciate that.”

She nodded back, a small, sharp gesture of acknowledgment. Then she reached up to wipe her forehead, leaving a smear of red across her skin.

I opened my mouth to suggest we bind the witch, to call for restraints, to prepare for the interrogation that would finally give us answers about the Delicate, the hung Omega, and all the other threads that led back to this woman.

The body stood up.

It happened in silence. One moment Willow was a heap on the floor, bleeding and unconscious, and the next she was on her feet, her posture straight, her arms hanging loose at her sides. Her eyes remained closed. Her chest didn’t move. She did not even look like she was breathing.

But she was standing.

Madeline had her back to the witch. She was looking at me, her hand still raised to her forehead, and she didn’t see it. She didn’t see the impossible movement. The horror of a puppet rising without strings.

I tried to warn her, but I was too slow. It was as though my throat had locked and my tongue felt thick and useless.

Willow’s hand rose. The palm faced upward, and the skin began to glow.

A deep, arterial red that pulsed like a heartbeat, like an open wound held up to the light.

I saw Madeline’s eyes widen as she read the terror on my face. She started to turn, her mouth opening to form a question.

But it was still too slow.

The red light built, swirling in Willow’s palm like blood circling a drain, and I knew with absolute certainty that whatever came next would end everything in sight.

Then it burst.