Free (A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord by Kj Charles Page A

tightened convulsively on Day’s.
    “Keep calm,” Day whispered, gently extricating his hand. “Stay here.”
    The thing that looked like Hector staggered up the path, fingers dragging at his ears. He put both hands to his neck and seemed to start trying to twist his head off.
    Day rose and stepped forward, the bag of salt and iron filings in his hand. Crane took a pace to stand next to him.
    “Stay back ,” Day hissed, irritated.
    “No,” said Crane. He spoke as quietly as Day had, but Hector’s head snapped up at the sound. The pale blue eyes that Crane remembered so well focused on him, and the cruel light in them hadn’t changed in two decades. Hector strode forward, suddenly in full control, his face distorted with rage, screaming words that were very nearly audible.
    “Get out of here,” said Day urgently. “Go!”
    Crane didn’t move, couldn’t. Hector’s arms were out, reaching for him, and the big hands were the size of hams now. He was visibly growing, towering in his consuming rage.
    “Stop there, shadow,” Day snarled, stepping quickly in front of Crane, and flung a handful of glittering white dust at the advancing figure. Hector shook his head, batted at the air in front of him as though clearing cobwebs, kept walking.
    “You’re making it stronger. Go .” Day reached for another handful of salt and iron from the bag, and Hector hit him, a backhander that somehow connected, knocked him off his feet and sent him reeling back into the roses that lined the path on both sides, trapping them.
    “ Run! ” Day screamed, and there was real alarm in his voice now as he struggled to extricate himself from the grasping tangle of thorns.
    Crane could barely hear him over Hector’s bellows. The dead man, his brother, the monster of his youth loomed over him, roaring the loathing of years, spitting out all the old hate and contempt and cruel promises, seasoned now with bitter, overwhelming resentment. My land, my inheritance, my life, you stole it, you filth. His face was dark and mottled with rage, and his jaw was open too wide, cracking, teeth huge pale tombstones in the gaping mouth that lunged forward to devour Crane with darkness.
    Crane took a single step to meet his brother and punched him square in the face.
    There was a moment of connection as his fist unquestionably met something. Then there was nothing to stop his forward momentum, and he was stumbling right into the monstrous vision, except that the great thing was also reeling back, grabbing at its face.
    Its head fell off.
    It bounced twice and rolled gently away, coming to rest on its side. The face looked like Hector again, like a human rather than an ogre, and it was weeping.
    The headless body staggered and fell to its knees, arms out, patting blindly at the stone. A searching hand fell onto the mass of golden hair by chance. The body hoisted its sobbing head up in the air, positioning it over the stump of neck, ready to put it back on.
    “No, you do not ,” said Day, standing over the grotesque pieta. He ripped open the bag of salt and iron as he spoke, with his fingers in an odd, clawlike position. The white and grey dust hung in the air above the Hector thing for a few unnatural seconds. Day’s fingers stabbed downwards, and the dust descended with intense force, like monsoon rain—
    And Hector wasn’t there.
    Crane stood and stared at the empty stone floor. He felt the sharp prickle of Day’s hand on his arm.
    “Come on, out of here. I’ve no idea how long that will keep it away. Walk. Left leg. Right. Left. Come on.”
    Crane made himself walk. They emerged into the moonlight, out of the rose-lined path, and Crane took a deep, shuddering breath.
    “The next time I say run ,” Day said, “listen to me. Please.”
    “I’ll listen the next time you say not to come at all. Jesus Christ. I need to sit down.”
    Day looked round quickly, and half-pulled him over to a square stone that had once been a statue’s pedestal.