Ghosts At The Coast by Stokes S.C

Author:Stokes, S.C.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Prescient Publishing
Published: 2023-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Arthas was all of five-foot five foot tall, but stocky like a bull.

He reminded me of a professional wrestler, and the black robes he was wearing utterly failed to conceal his tremendous size. He looked like he could squeeze the life out of me with one hand and the look in his eyes told me he was angry enough to try.

He was flanked by two acolytes, a man and woman both in their late thirties. The man had his sandy brown hair pulled back into a topknot. The female acoylte’s frizzy black hair fell to her shoulders. She screwed up her nose like I’d shown up to her little clique uninvited.

As they advanced, Alasdair whispered, "He's an earth wizard. Watch your footing.”

I had dealt with elementalists before: the fire wielding warlocks on Tangalooma, and the ice magic of the Winter Court that the Red Cap had thrown at me.

But it was times like these that made me realize just how narrow my experience was. What was an earth wizard even capable of? Burying me in a sandpit? Please, I was an ice queen in the making.

"Alistair, you should know better than to interfere," Arthas said as he stepped forward, lifting his hand high overhead. Power surged toward him like he was the event horizon of a black hole.

"Arthas, don't do it,” Alasdair warned.

Arthas dropped to one knee and brought his hand down on the concrete path. Power flooded from him in a concussive wave. A giant rift tore open the concrete before him, racing toward us.

Guttural Scottish words rolled off Alasdair’s tongue as he drew together a shield. I drew on my power and hurled a spear of ice three feet long straight at Arthas.

Arthas had been sucking the life from hundreds of innocents. He could ride that icy harpoon right to hell as far as I was concerned.

The crack in the ground reached us and the spell detonated, sending concrete, concussive force, and earth magic spilling in every direction. The force of the blast threw me back five feet into the wall of the exhibit. My shoulder absorbed the worst of the blow, but I still clipped my head against the concrete.

Stars spun overhead as a shooting pain in my shoulder reminded me that I was still alive, before I fell to the ground, landing on the broken concrete.

Angry stings pricked my face and palms of my hands, warning me of a dozen minor cuts and abrasions. I rubbed at my head. I was going to have a fierce headache, but that wasn’t going to matter if I was dead.

Pushing myself to my hands and knees, I winced against the pain. Alasdair was leaning on the wall. Between us, a massive eight-foot wide section of the wall had collapsed into the viewing laboratory beneath.

I wasn’t feeling so poorly about hitting the wall. If I’d sailed through that hole, it was a ten-meter drop to the floor below.

Arthas couldn’t have known the hostages were all clear.

I’d known him all of five minutes, and already I hated him.

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