Page 62 of Reluctant Wizard

“We’re supposed to believe that?” Alise asked, the question dripping with gratifying sarcasm. Her fear and panic had dried up during Gordon’s contemptuous speech, baked away by the fire of her righteous anger. Cillian was the finest of men and she was growing heartily tired of people acting like a youthful love affair and earnest desire to help someone else counted as a massive character flaw. Maybe in the cutthroat Convocation version of ethics, it did, but not in her book.

Gordon’s smarmy magic reached for her, oozing tendrils groping for a hold on her will. She’d have to thank him for indulging in that little speech as it had given her opportunity to recall her lessons in the dark arts. Grounded again, she slipped herself away from the psychic wizard’s grasp, mentally eluding him with ease. Losing his pose of superiority, Gordon frowned at her, his magic lunging in an unexpected strike.

She wisped away again, tempted to give him a smug smile, but wise enough to keep looking afraid—and unaware of his attempts. “I don’t think you’ll let us go,” she prompted, bringing his attention back to his claim.

“I don’t want you, baby wizard,” Gordon snapped. “Or your nothing of a boyfriend. I’m your window of opportunity to escape the consequences of your impulsive actions. Give me the archive and I’ll go. That’s all I want. But I’m warning you: push me and I’ll take you to those who do want you and you can enjoy being my little sex-puppet on the way.”

“I can’t give the archive to you,” Cillian blurted, sounding on the verge of tears. “I would if I could, but you don’t have library magic. Please leave Alise alone. Don’t hurt her.”

Gordon turned his unwinking black gaze on Cillian. Alise got a very bad feeling. Cillian had just drawn the focused attention of the viper, thinking to protect her. His tearful plea was probably an act, and he had the best of intentions, but she still wanted to kick him.

“What fools love makes of us,” Gordon said to Cillian with soft and sweetly derisive sympathy. “But thank you for the suggestion. I don’t need you to give me the archive when I can simply have you.”

Alise saw the spear of magic, like a whip made of solid oil, shooting out and burying itself in Cillian’s forehead. She cried out along with Cillian’s gulp of agonized shock, his hand vising on hers as he convulsed, spine arching as he writhed in place. She had no way to protect Cillian, she realized with stomach-dropping terror. Everything she’d learned had been to save herself, not someone else. It seemed deeply, ironically fitting that even in this, she was completely selfish. She couldn’t nobly sacrifice herself for Cillian because she simply didn’t have the ability. How apt.

“Let him go!” she shouted, rounding on Gordon.

He flicked an amused glance at her. “Let me consider that request. Hmm. No.”

“I’ll go with you willingly,” she offered. No, pleaded.

Gordon tsked at her, turning his attention back to Cillian, who calmed now, no longer physically fighting the Hanneil wizard’s psychic grip. “I admire your grandiose perception of your importance in all this, sweetheart, but you’ve always been a mere pawn in this game. Your relevance has come and gone—though I personally appreciate the role you played in retrieving what my employers will reward me richly for appropriating. Thank you for your service to the cause.”

Cillian had fully stilled now, his hand lax in hers, his gaze dully complacent.

“What cause?” Alise demanded, stalling for time. To do what, she didn’t know, but she needed to think. “Who are your employers?”

“Silly bean.” Gordon chuckled, shaking his head. “Only in novels do people monologue about their grand schemes, and then only if they intend to kill off the audience. Your dear papa would be most displeased if I did away with you, so that can’t happen. I advise you to ask him. He strikes me as the type to jerk off his ego by monologuing. Now, book boy, come along with me. Places to go, people to see.”

Cillian went willingly, a blank expression on his face. Holding onto his limp hand, Alise went with him.

Gordon arched a brow at her. “Coming along? I know you’re hot for me, but really your eagerness is becoming an embarrassment. Maybe when you’ve grown up a bit, filled out some curves, you can send me a courier. Daddy will know where to find me.” He winked at her and turned, Cillian following behind like an obedient pet.

“I won’t let you take him,” Alise ground out, firming her grip and planting her feet, so their arms stretched out long, Cillian still trying to walk away from her.

Gordon heaved an exasperated sigh. Without warning, he threw a psychic attack at her—not an attempt at control or to subvert her will, but to harm. She could see the menace in the magic hurtling toward her and instinctively understood that it would fry her mind.

Too late to evade or elude. She could only fight with whatever power she could muster. With the limited magic remaining to her, she threw up a desperate defense, pitching her magic against the Hanneil wizard’s.

He blasted right through it.

The psychic blow hit her with devastating force, sending excruciating white-hot magic all along her nerves. Distantly she recognized this as a form of illusion. He was making her think she was in pain, but her body didn’t know the difference and she dropped to the floor in a rictus of agony.

Freed from her hold, Cillian walked a few more steps to Gordon’s side, turning to watch her with a curiously impassive expression, as if he didn’t even recognize her. Likely he didn’t.

“Cillian,” she begged, reaching a hand to him. “You know me. Please help me.”

“He can’t help anyone, sweetmeat,” Gordon said. “Least of all himself.”

“I can be of assistance, however.” Provost Uriel stepped out of the shadows, her platinum hair a radiant beacon, her familiar Priyan a step behind her. Alise sobbed out her relief, hoping against hope.

“Provost Uriel.” Gordon nearly snarled, but he also straightened his shoulders and gave her the appearance of courtesy. “I apologize that you’ve been disturbed, but this is routine proctor business. Nothing to concern your august attention.”

With the diversion of Gordon’s focus, his attack on Alise fell off and she sagged in a limp heap on the floor, too weak to move.

“I’m not sure how you can imagine that to be true, Proctor Hanneil,” the provost replied, unruffled, glancing down at Alise and offering her a hand. “This looks far from routine. And with one of my archivists involved, too. Most unusual.”

Alise, grateful for the assistance, struggled to her feet. Very tempted to slide behind the provost and metaphorically hide her face in the intimidating woman’s skirts, Alise made herself stay by the provost, on the other side from Priyan, and face Gordon with chin high. Whatever Gordon had done to Cillian, the effect remained in place, and Alise fretted internally that the Hanneil wizard might have damaged Cillian’s mind forever. His brilliant mind. It couldn’t be.

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