Cast in Faefire: An Urban Fantasy Romance (The Mage Craft Series Book 3) by S.M. Reine
Authors: S.M. Reine
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would be crushed to death when the car flipped. They’d take out the driver of the other car in the collision with them.
Nine of the witches would die of old age, over a span of sixty to ninety years—a good life span for preternaturals of their ilk. That indicated they were strong enough to maintain health with magic, but not so strong that the magic would kill them.
Hundreds of students were near enough in the school that he could simultaneously see their lives, too.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at Marion. He didn’t want to know.
“Do it fast,” Seth said hoarsely, eyes fixed on his chest and the smoky power dribbling over his hips.
Sinead began chanting. When she did, the witches raised their hands, linked their fingers, and began to circle him. The spell shoved against his flesh, forcing him into the mold of a human shape so tight that it hurt.
The pain must have showed on his face.
“Careful,” Rylie called from outside the circle.
“As careful as we ever are,” Sinead said.
The salt ringing the circle of power lifted in a cyclone that whipped at his legs.
Magic squeezed him tighter.
Thread by thread, the fog spilling from Seth’s chest retracted. Flakes of skin and bone that had been drifting from the injury reversed.
Getting knitted back together hurt almost as much as when the Hounds had chewed on him. The witches circled and chanted and his skin was growing back together and it hurt .
His knees buckled. He sank to the altar with a groan.
The sense of death only grew along with the magic. Threads of life and death pinwheeled through eternity, pulling Seth along with them.
Another of the witches would die while pregnant because her boyfriend shot her in the face.
Yet another would die in childbirth.
A student in the nearest wing was going to die in a dominance fight between werewolves when he was in his fifties.
Another would die of cancer—cancer! Something that nobody had realized that shapeshifters could even get. It would strike her when she was in her eighties and take twenty years to murder her.
And then there was Rylie.
“No,” Seth groaned aloud as the magic pushed. “ No .”
He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to know.
But there was no avoiding it.
He saw the horrible instant that Rylie would permanently shuffle off of the mortal coil.
The magic ended.
Seth came back to reality and collapsed on the altar.
Sinead was kneeling over him, arms folded, a frown on her bow-shaped lips. “We’ve stopped the degradation.”
He looked down. She was right. His skin was no longer flaking away.
“Is he healed?” Rylie asked from outside the circle.
Sinead was silent, so Seth was the one who had to tell them, “No.”
* * *
S eth was silent for a long time after the coven left with Rylie, sitting alone on the altar. Marion waited to approach. She’d give him all the solitude he needed.
They were at an Academy for educating young preternaturals, and he looked like the most magical thing there. He hadn’t pulled his shirt back on, so the wound was still exposed to the air. She caught the occasional glimpse of a heart beating within his ribcage.
Seth must have felt her watching. He patted the altar beside him, silently suggesting that she should sit.
She stood on the ground by his legs, leaned her elbows on the elevated platform, and gazed up at him from below. Marion was tempted to poke her fingers in the gaping wound to find out what that internal fog would feel like. She resisted. It was doubtful Seth would appreciate the intrusion.
“They stopped the degradation,” Seth said. “I can tell I’m not dying anymore. But I’m not fixed.”
“The problem isn’t you. It’s with the nature of healing magic.” Marion had been able to see the threads of magic as they’d been cast. She had seen its power, and its limitations. “To heal, witches restore a body to its current optimal state. Bones can be mended, but old age can’t be fended off.
Nine of the witches would die of old age, over a span of sixty to ninety years—a good life span for preternaturals of their ilk. That indicated they were strong enough to maintain health with magic, but not so strong that the magic would kill them.
Hundreds of students were near enough in the school that he could simultaneously see their lives, too.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at Marion. He didn’t want to know.
“Do it fast,” Seth said hoarsely, eyes fixed on his chest and the smoky power dribbling over his hips.
Sinead began chanting. When she did, the witches raised their hands, linked their fingers, and began to circle him. The spell shoved against his flesh, forcing him into the mold of a human shape so tight that it hurt.
The pain must have showed on his face.
“Careful,” Rylie called from outside the circle.
“As careful as we ever are,” Sinead said.
The salt ringing the circle of power lifted in a cyclone that whipped at his legs.
Magic squeezed him tighter.
Thread by thread, the fog spilling from Seth’s chest retracted. Flakes of skin and bone that had been drifting from the injury reversed.
Getting knitted back together hurt almost as much as when the Hounds had chewed on him. The witches circled and chanted and his skin was growing back together and it hurt .
His knees buckled. He sank to the altar with a groan.
The sense of death only grew along with the magic. Threads of life and death pinwheeled through eternity, pulling Seth along with them.
Another of the witches would die while pregnant because her boyfriend shot her in the face.
Yet another would die in childbirth.
A student in the nearest wing was going to die in a dominance fight between werewolves when he was in his fifties.
Another would die of cancer—cancer! Something that nobody had realized that shapeshifters could even get. It would strike her when she was in her eighties and take twenty years to murder her.
And then there was Rylie.
“No,” Seth groaned aloud as the magic pushed. “ No .”
He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to know.
But there was no avoiding it.
He saw the horrible instant that Rylie would permanently shuffle off of the mortal coil.
The magic ended.
Seth came back to reality and collapsed on the altar.
Sinead was kneeling over him, arms folded, a frown on her bow-shaped lips. “We’ve stopped the degradation.”
He looked down. She was right. His skin was no longer flaking away.
“Is he healed?” Rylie asked from outside the circle.
Sinead was silent, so Seth was the one who had to tell them, “No.”
* * *
S eth was silent for a long time after the coven left with Rylie, sitting alone on the altar. Marion waited to approach. She’d give him all the solitude he needed.
They were at an Academy for educating young preternaturals, and he looked like the most magical thing there. He hadn’t pulled his shirt back on, so the wound was still exposed to the air. She caught the occasional glimpse of a heart beating within his ribcage.
Seth must have felt her watching. He patted the altar beside him, silently suggesting that she should sit.
She stood on the ground by his legs, leaned her elbows on the elevated platform, and gazed up at him from below. Marion was tempted to poke her fingers in the gaping wound to find out what that internal fog would feel like. She resisted. It was doubtful Seth would appreciate the intrusion.
“They stopped the degradation,” Seth said. “I can tell I’m not dying anymore. But I’m not fixed.”
“The problem isn’t you. It’s with the nature of healing magic.” Marion had been able to see the threads of magic as they’d been cast. She had seen its power, and its limitations. “To heal, witches restore a body to its current optimal state. Bones can be mended, but old age can’t be fended off.
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