Page 83 of The Misfit Mage and His Dashing Devil

Okay. I meant to but didn’t realize I meant to. Subconscious curiosity, or however Walter and Mora would mockingly phrase it.

No matter how much I told myself I wanted to find Ian, to tighten the bond connecting us, every thought twisted into an image of Walter. His bloody, impaled chest as I clutched him the night he’d nearly died. I clamped my jaw, furious I’d allowed him to be taken from my grasp and brought to such harm. His primal expression as he’d kissed me, demanded satisfaction. The passing image of his seductive face elicited carnal desires all over again. His curious eyes as he studied my past. It almost brought a smile because there was no judgment in his gaze, in his questions, in his observations.

I frowned, drawn to the memory of his broken face as I beat him in the motel room. But he even turned my failure into a success—his success in the way he fought against Ian and myself amid a field of carnage. His face was brave beyond belief. Everything about Walter consumed my every waking thought.

I had to find him. Apologize. Protect him. End the threat of a murderous misfit mage.

Ian’s presence swelled, angry and pained. An instinctual fight for survival fueled me with adrenaline. I burst from the void and chased the tether. Not to live. Ian was feral and would do anything to escape, which wouldn’t happen.

Flapping my wings, I soared swiftly in the direction my heart pulled me.

A deep searing pain dug into my stomach, rooting around my insides, carving almost methodically. I could feel the way a blade sliced around my organs. Around Ian’s. Nothing which would severely impair me or him. Light nicks followed. I flew faster, desperately, as the link faded.

It was still there, a light, slow-moving pulse, so I chased the rhythmic sensation because I had to reach Ian and rescue Walter. The entire flight, my insides were ripped and torn apart. I winced from the deep incisions around my ribcage, followed by swift slices along the outside of my heart muscles. A sharp stabbing sensation ran through my chest, pressing against my lung and wriggling.

It took everything I had to ignore it and fly faster. If Walter was dying, he put up a hell of a fight. Literally. I’d seen demons dish out less damage before being overwhelmed.

If Walter was overpowered, harmed beyond repair, I might not be able to resist Ian’s next command. My throat tightened, a heavy pressure weighing on my Adam’s apple.

What if Walter was already dead?

The streets grew darker—fewer streetlights, fewer mortal homes illuminated. It was an isolated location. Only the moon and stars lit this desolate area. I turned the corner of an abandoned building and found Walter and Ian entangled in combat outside.

Hovering above them, I raised a brow at the perplexing sight.

Walter straddled Ian while holding a bloody blade. He kept a hand firmly pressed to Ian’s throat. Crimson tendrils thrashed between the pair. Eight shoestring thin threads of essence attempting to repair the damage dealt from that Diabolic killing artifact.

What was happening? Walter was bloody and bruised, clutching the hilt with the same hand I’d broken a finger of. There was no essence inside him, not that I thought Mora would offer any, but his arm had healed. The lengths he’d gone and skills he’d accomplished were a sight unlike any other. Pure determination, unfettered by anxiety. Even now as he sat on Ian’s hips, his body pained, he didn’t tremble. His hands were steady, his breathing calm. The way Ian quaked beneath him and Walter’s eyes followed the tendrils, it was like watching a viper. Beautiful and deadly. Violent and vicious, but only when provoked.

“Do you know why it’s called the Demon’s Demise?” Walter asked, carrying a wicked lilt in his whisper. “You were right about the name being silly.”

My body trembled at the way his words slithered into my eardrums. This wasn’t an effect of the essence linking me to Ian. No. The wisps of essence which remained fervently fought off Walter—unsuccessfully at that.

“But you were wrong about its use.” Walter sliced two tendrils, wrapping them around the blade like noodles on a utensil. I expected him to lap them up, heal his injuries, and reunite our bodies.

Instead, he delicately dropped them next to him onto a pile of my discarded essence. Blood and essence pooled together in a tight, spongy ball.

“You see, this particular blade is curved almost for scooping.” He giggled to himself as he dug the tip into Ian’s exposed, bloody stomach. He plucked another tendril and continued his lecture. Oh, how he loved to share his wealth of knowledge. “The Mythics which created it likely believed it could be used to remove Diabolic essence—which is true, as we can both see—but it was ceremonial. Meant to reverse possessions. You don’t know much about that. Don’t feel bad. Neither did I. Turns out, once a Diabolic possesses a host, there’s not really anything to salvage. These models were quickly discarded, considered incapable of undoing possessions.”

Ian’s eyes locked onto mine. Frantic and frightened. “Beelzebub, I demand you s—”

Walter pressed the blade inside Ian’s mouth.

Blood gushed from my mouth, and the tip of the knife stabbed into Ian, slit my tongue in half. I smiled, licking the blood on my lips as my tongue healed and Ian’s remained forked.

“What’s the matter?” Walter grinned. “Devil got your tongue?” He laughed. The freest sound I’d ever heard come from Walter. It radiated around him, casting waves of devilish delight which sent a shudder through every cell of my body—a truly intoxicating sensation I wanted to savor.

I descended, yet he kept his wide eyes locked on Ian. “What are you doing, Walter?”

“Freeing you.” He plucked the final strings which linked me to that bastard beneath him. “I wanted to fix this my way.”

“Your way is quite unexpected.” I approached, kneeling in front of him. “Have you accessed that witch artifact? You mentioned complications with the effects on the mind.”

He shook his head. “This is all me.”

“You certain?” I brushed away the damp curls that clung to his forehead.

“Yes.” Walter pressed the tip of the blade just below Ian’s left eye, settling the mage who’d begun to squirm as we spoke. Perhaps he deluded himself into thinking it an opportune time to plan his escape. “Besides, I don’t have Agatha’s Heart.”

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