Page 79 of The Librarian’s Familiar

August placed a hand on the back of his neck. “I’m going to shift, and you’re going to ride me like a pony. I will get you closer, and I will protect you from the storm so you can keep doing what you need to do.”

Charlie nodded as he ripped away a bigger part of the storm. He laughed as it fell apart, becoming nothing more than a scramble of wind.

He needed to find the order before he got lost in the chaos. He rearranged the pebbles, always keeping them in a line. How was he going to keep the order if he was riding a polar bear?

Heat washed over him like he stepped into a boiling hot shower; it ran down his spine and lodged in his balls. His heartbeat quickened, and pain flashed over his skin. He gasped, and for a moment, he was looking at the world through different eyes and feeling it with different skin. The heat lingered, strange like it couldn’t decide between lust and pain and hunger.

The bear nudged at his shoulder. He didn’t need to see it to know what it was. Maybe it was all the magic in the air, but he was now acutely aware of every movement August made. Charlie placed one pebble in his mouth—it had been smooth when August gave it to him, but now, it was rough as if his magic was rubbing at the surface—he tucked it into his cheek, and the other three into his pocket and stood. He didn’t need to watch the clouds, but it helped him focus on the magic.

Icy rain slid into the tiny gap the coat left around his neck, like the water was seeking a way in. He climbed onto the back of the bear and wrapped his arms around August’s neck because he didn’t know how else to hold on.

He had no doubt the other witch felt the change. Any witch with an ounce of talent didn’t need to be able to see to sense the changes, especially when they were using so much magic. Maybe it wasn’t one witch?

That was too awful to contemplate.

His body bounced with every loping stride. August took them down the slope and away from their camp. Away from the cold rain that stung his skin. He turned his head to keep watch on the clouds and sensed the moment the storm following them realized they were moving and changed direction in a way no natural storm could do.

That moment of change was enough for him to rip it apart; wind shrieked as the threads of magic disintegrated. The magic hit them, sending August skidding over the open ground, claws raking in the dirt. Then it was gone, and the world was far too silent.

As much as he wanted to take the moment to close his eyes and rest, he couldn’t.

Keep going. Closer.

The foxes from the prison would be coming at the witch from the west. They were approaching from the south and further away. His magic shouldn’t be impacted by the foxes. He needed to keep going. He lifted his head, noting the wet, dark spot. He sniffed—blood. On August’s white fur. He knew polar bears didn’t have white fur, or perhaps August had explained it to him. It didn’t matter. August lifted his head and inhaled.

Was he smelling the blood?

Shit.

August slowed. His panic flooded Charlie’s mind.

I’m fine. Keep going.

He was fine, but he had to keep going because if he stopped, it was going to be ten times worse, and he couldn’t deal with twice as bad.

August growled and put his head down, running over rocks and shrubs. Even Charlie could tell it wasn’t a sustainable pace. None of this was sustainable. It had to end.

Closer. Closer.

Without his own personal storm to worry about, he concentrated on the big one, and the witch. The witch was no longer just the ignition point of the storm. He was a tangle of threads, gleaming and begging to be unpicked.

At this distance, he was no bigger than an ant.

He’d taken apart ants before.

This wasn’t an ant—no, he needed to think of the tangle as an ant. It couldn’t be bigger. It couldn’t be anything else.

He sensed the foxes and the way the witch sent part of the storm toward them only for it to weaken. Now the witch was fighting on multiple fronts, and he couldn’t keep all his threads together.

There it was. A little golden thread seeking him out, followed by a much thicker thread of magic. Another storm, only this time much sharper and colder because they were closer. Both their magics were more effective, more deadly with less ground to cover.

He rested his cheek against August, the blood spot cold and damp against his cheek, his heartbeat erratic as he grasped the golden thread, and poured everything he had into unspooling the witch.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The scent of blood-filled August’s lungs. If it was his own blood, it would’ve been entirely acceptable. He’d smelled his own blood many times. Licked his own wounds in this form, more times than he had claws. But this was Charlie’s blood, and Charlie should not be bleeding.

This shit was going horribly wrong. He kept running even though he was starting to tire. The sky still looked like a brewing storm to him, even though the rain had stopped. Something twisted like magic had reached into his chest to rip out his lungs. He gasped and stumbled, and Charlie slid off his back, landing like a sock that had somehow escaped the laundry basket.