Free Cast Into Darkness by Janet Tait Page A

even the glimmer of a hasty cloak spell.
    Kristof rolled into the underbrush, taking cover beneath a blackberry bush. Leaves crackled nearby—the Hamilton goons closing in. He tried to quiet his ragged breathing.
    Have to renew the cloak spell—my best chance with this many enemies.
    He cast the spell, waiting until its purple haze covered his form. Then he scrambled up and darted through the trees, putting as much distance between him and his pursuers as possible, shoving away the feeling of eyes on his back.
    He found an old fox’s den in a hollowed-out oak a hundred yards away. Crawling inside, he slipped on the pine needles covering the ground, their scent rising in the air. Waiting, he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his system, the bitter, coppery taste of tension in his mouth. Shit. The aura trick should have worked. They must have known he would try something. Did his sister betray him? Someone else?
    He breathed in, held it for a four-count, then breathed out. Did it again. And again. While his heartbeat steadied, he observed his mind’s agitated thoughts float by until they were nothing more than leaves in a stream.
    A spider hopped onto his arm, then moved across it and down his shoulder. His wrist throbbed as the pain of the fracture finally broke through his adrenaline rush. He lay still, listening. Leaves rustled. A branch snapped. A purple tendril crept by, probed the edge of the den, then moved on.
    A few minutes later, voices rumbled in the distance.
    “Anything?” Victor Cole. Probably the one who’d fired off the kinetic punch.
    “Nothing. He must have slipped by us.”
    A grunt. “Maybe.”
    Nothing else. He waited longer. He waited until the sun had set and the night air cooled off. How much time had passed? Had they given up the hunt?
    He used his magesight to probe for a teleport block. There. Set in the fence—and active—a few yards away, it still prevented him from leaving the fastest and easiest way.
    Damn. He’d have to extract himself the hard way.
    While he whispered the incantation, he tapped out the three points to the spell. A ball of emerald mist formed in his palm.
    He peered into the mist. The forest around him glimmered like a tiny model in his hand. Trees, the fence, his truck… Anything else? Yes. Between him and the truck—two guards. One stationed near the truck, dressed in a blue Hamilton T-shirt, and one cloaked, nothing but a flicker near the fence.
    Victor hadn’t bought the theory of his escape. But Kristof hadn’t expected him to.
    The surveillance spell showed only the trap spells. Nothing else. That he could see. What else couldn’t he see?
    Kristof dismissed the green mist with a snap of his fingers. He’d have to trust the spell. Two guards shouldn’t pose a threat.
    A quick animate spell and the hoe took care of the one near the fence, the guard’s cloak spell disappearing as he slumped to the ground, his head bleeding. Kristof rolled from the fox’s den and crept along the forest floor until he reached striking distance of the other guard, who was leaning against the truck. He couldn’t afford a showy spell, a kinetic punch or a lightning bolt. Nothing that would bring more guards or make him even twitchier.
    Kristof wove his spell and shot it toward the guard. At first, nothing. Then the guard clutched his throat, gasping for breath, his fingers beating with frantic energy against the truck in an attempt to execute a counterspell. Face turning blue, eyes bulging, he fell against the truck. He reached into his pocket for a phone, then dropped it from his shaking fingers onto the forest floor.
    A minute or two should do it. Deprive the man’s brain of oxygen for longer than that and Kristof risked damaging it, or even killing him. No point risking discovery by leaving bodies around, especially on an off-book operation.
    A few seconds after the man went limp, Kristof shut off the spell. He glanced over at the truck with his magesight. There,