Page 10 of The Girl Who Only Died Once

The wind howls in the trees high above them, snow whipping through the branches and flinging sharp against Chloe’s cheeks. Despite the time of day, despite the sun that must be risen behind the clouds, the entire world blurs in shades of grey and white.

With a muttered curse, Ambra flings up her hands, twisting up magic and flaring it around them, bright and vicious, until a buffer blasts up around them, stopping the scraping ice and cutting wind.

It warps, brutal red and black, and the actions are familiar to Chloe, even if the visible result isn’t.

“Well, this is awful,” Chloe says brightly, taking a few moments to blink the snow away from her eyes. Her research tells of a trap door, hidden against the forest floor, leading her to her first aim, but it’s probably under a good foot and a half of snow. “Thanks?”

Ambra frowns, not at her, then jerks her head. “Look.”

With each gesture, there’s a small physical component, and Ambra must be eternally gesturing with magic, unseen by everyone.

Where she points, however, is the barest hint of a warping black indicator, almost blended in with the shadows from the deep trees.

“That,” Ambra starts, as if there’s a foul taste in her mouth, “is a demon illusion spell.”

The hairs on the back of Chloe’s neck raise, despite the relative warmth of the little buffer Ambra crafted for them.

Illusion spells Chloe can tear down, as long as she knows they’re there.

She confidently steps forward, letting her fingers drag into the snow, twisting it up and shifting it around until it forms into the counter spell.

The thing about Alchemy is it’s fundamentally different from spell weaving. Spell weaving is all about intention, all about feeling the world around oneself and tugging at the threads to do your will.

Alchemy is all about what is around you and what you can do with it. Everything can be turned into something else, and everyspell can be studied, and every spell can have its exact opposite molded from the environment around it.

Trap work like this sings in Chloe’s blood.

Ambra points to the edge, where the indistinct edge blurs into the snow, where a barb is hidden away, ready to snap at someone who’s unaware.

Chloe nods and despite the exhaustion, despite the caffeine still buzzing around her brain, a smile breaks over her face.

“That’s recent,” Ambra says, barely audible behind the rushing in Chloe’s ears, the excitement in her veins. “Last few days.”

More adrenaline trickles into Chloe’s spine. “Fresh trail is good.”

Letting the air around her tug out of focus, letting the snow and the wind and noise fall away, Chloe disarms the counterattack first, leaving the barb limp and useless against the snow. It’s easy, barely giving her any trouble, as its strength lay in the fact that most humans can’t see demon magic, and whoever this demon is, they didn’t expect one of their own kind to follow them down.

Ambra hisses out a breath but shakes her head when Chloe glances back. Not anything dangerous, then.

“We should go back,” Ambra says, and her eyes are red, vividly so, even among the wind and the snow. “You should train more. Get used to what you can see now.”

Chloe’s had enough training in her life and enough restrictions stopping her. “I’m good.”

Ambra evaluates her, in that too still way of hers, but the double outline of her shifts, like her very nature disagrees with the lack of motion.

“If I hadn’t seen you in Toronto, I would teleport you back, no matter what you’d say,” Ambra says quietly, then nods to theillusion spell as Chloe unravels it with a snap. “Careful with this one, there’s something familiar about it.”

That, out of everything else, causes Chloe to pause. “Did you know them? This demon person?”

Ambra favors her with another almost glare, which is way more terrifying with the double self visible. “Don’t get killed, I don’t want to deal with everyone’s emotions.”

“Fair,” Chloe says, then surveys her work.

The ground underneath the illusion spell is cleared, not a hint of ice or frost, and if someone unaware had stepped into it without knowing they would have broken an ankle. Instead, dead moss lays damp against the dark earth, decaying leaves tossed around, all rather wet.

And the barest hint of a wooden door in the floor, propped open with a stone, water dripping off the boards.

“Gotcha,” Chloe says, before a spike of awareness snaps through her back and she twirls.

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