Then, with a shuddering roar like a sonic boom, their commingled magic turned into something else.

27

Anathema

Just like Talia and I had predicted, Avramov and Thorn magics were not intended to combine. Averse as they were to each other’s basic natures, they very much did not want to be woven into this unnatural wreath Rowan and Talia had made. But like all magic, these two raw filaments were still guided by their wielders’ will—and in this instance, their wills aligned. So the two inimical strains of magic did their best to accommodate them both, transforming into something new.

What encircled Gareth now looked like I’d always imagined dark matter might look: a ring of matte black far beyond simple darkness, much blacker and deeper than even Talia’s ectoplasm. Within its impenetrable folds, pinpricks of brilliant light glimmered like tiny stars. It held Gareth trapped within its center, caught helpless in its heart, canceling every spell he cast the moment it struck the barrier—every bit the antimagic forcefield Talia and I had imagined and hoped this commingled magic would become.

Back where I stood, beyond the castle’s walls, I heard Elena Avramov hiss in a sharp breath.

“They should not be doing this,” she said, such cold dread lining her low voice that I felt the first real inklings of fear myself. It occurred to me that at my urging, Rowan and Talia had done something without precedent . . . and that there might just be a very good reason something like this had never been attempted before.

Back in the courtyard, Gareth snarled in pure rage, the veins in his temples pounding like an impending aneurysm.

“Let . . . me . . . the fuck . . . out!” he bellowed, sending wild burst after burst of magic into the barrier—an uncontrolled barrage that would likely have brought the whole castle down on our heads, had the boundary not eaten it all up.

“Rowan, go,” Talia forced out, both hands raised and bent back at the wrists, glistening darkness flowing like ink out of her palms. “This one’s yours. If . . . if you hurry, I can hold it together by myself.”

“Hell no,” Rowan said, through gritted teeth. “I can do both. No damn way I’m letting you do this alone.”

A flood of green pouring from one hand, he extended the other toward the dragon, lips forming the words of the Disanimating Curse. Sweat pearled in beads on his forehead as he fought through the spell, all the cords in his neck standing out with effort. Though all the families could animate to some degree—which meant the Animation Charm and its opposite were among the first spells baby witches learned—this was a harder spell than the other two had been, as befitted the crowning obstacle. And Rowan was casting it while he held up his end of the antimagic barrier, already a massive exertion in itself.