Magic Claims by Ilona Andrews

Isaac walked over and crouched near me. “I want to show you something.”

I popped the last of my chocolate into my mouth and got up.

He led me off the road into the brush. Ten yards into it I stopped.

The forest here was different. Gone were the mast-straight pines flooded with sunshine. These were much darker woods. Denser, with huge aspens and massive birches vying for space with balsam firs and cedars. Hemlocks spread their green branches. Honeysuckle, yew, and gooseberry bushes crowded into the rare patches of light. The air smelled different, clean, without a trace of salt or ocean, and spiced with a hint of Christmas conifers.

Wow.

“This way,” Isaac said.

I followed him deeper in. We rounded a huge balsam fir. Ahead the forest parted, as if someone had cut a perfect circle out of the green growth. In the middle of it, a jagged stone thrust up and out of the forest floor, like the rib of a mountain. On top of the stone lay a body in tactical camo.

Isaac took another step forward, and I put my arm out in front of him. We had reached the end of the safe zone.

The body lay bathed in sunlight, perfectly preserved. I could see every detail: the blond hair, the face of a man in his thirties with two-day stubble on his chin, the eyes opened wide, gazing at the sky. He didn’t look dead. He looked like a man who had decided to take a break after a long trek through the woods, except for the sword thrust into his chest, the Order’s mark on its pommel.

No animals had touched him. No insects swarmed above him. The forest had formed a perfect ring to avoid him. Just the rock, the man, and the red symbols scratched into the stone and traced with blood.

“Jeremiah?” I asked.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did. Knight-Defender Jeremiah Gardner. The first man taken out of your team.”

“When this is over…”

“I’ll find a way to get him off that rock, Isaac.”

The knight-pathfinder nodded and looked back at the body. “Not too much longer,” he promised. “I’ll come back for you.”





12





The magic of the forest slithered in twisting currents, boiling at the borders of my safe zone. Thick like syrup, deep enough to drown in. We were at the center of the forest’s power. It gnawed on the edges of my narrow claiming, trying to sink its teeth in and failing. The trees had grown thick and tall, their branches reaching for each other over the road, blocking out the sun above our heads. We were moving through a green tunnel.

Conlan slipped through the column, edging dangerously close to the boundary, lingered there for a few moments, and wove his way to my side.

“Mom.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yes?”

He shifted into the language of Shinar seamlessly. “You’re stronger than it, right?”

“We will soon find out.”

He looked at me wide-eyed. That wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

“Raw power is important, but there are times when training matters more. And you, although you are only eight, are better trained than whoever claimed this land.”

He looked at the woods.

“Remember what your father said about the other shapeshifters?”

He nodded.

“It’s just like that. Look at it, Conlan. Yes, that’s a lot of magic, but feel how haphazard and uneven it is. Now feel the power of my claim. When we painted our house, we didn’t hurl paint cans at the walls. We dipped a roller and covered it evenly.”

He looked at the woods again, and then at the road in front of us. His shoulders straightened. He raised his head.

“This is why we train,” I told him in English. “With magic, especially, it’s about control. A blood spike the size of a needle, thrown at the right moment, can kill the enemy before they ever get a chance to hurl a giant boulder at us.”

He smiled and fell back into his place by Jushur.

This was a hell of a lot of magic though. At first, carving off a chunk of forest territory was relatively easy. This last time it was like trying to push a giant rock across a field through the mud. When I was done, my whole body was drenched in sweat.

Whatever awaited us at the end of this road, it wouldn’t just roll over. It hadn’t run away, though a part of me had hoped. No, it was biding its time, marshaling its power, condensing its magic as it drew it in to defend itself.

My sword hand itched. I was tired of walking and waiting.

Not long now. I could see the light directly ahead of us, where the forest ended, and the road would run into the clear ground. We were drawing closer with every step.

Isaac suddenly stopped, poised on his toes. I looked past him at the nearly blinding glow of daylight.

A giant deer stood in the light, just beyond my safe zone. Bigger than a moose, seven feet tall at the shoulder, it stared at us without fear. Enormous antlers crowned its head, two massive blades of bone with points the size of swords, protruding almost five feet out. Clumps of grass dripped from the horns, as if the creature had dug them into the turf.

It was majestic and beautiful, as if the forest had sent a herald to greet us.

“An Irish elk,” Keelan whispered.

More like the stag-moose, Cervalces scotti, which was native to North America according to Conlan’s book, but I didn’t want to ruin Keelan’s moment.

“Damn, that’s a lot of meat,” Jynx breathed behind us.