Chapter 118: 118: The Academy Test XXVIII
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Edda, who had been about to throw more light, paused. "I hate this fluffy thing," she said.
"Most people do," Fizz said cheerfully. "They get used to it. Some die first. Do you want to dei?"
"Fizz," John said.
"What," Fizz said. "I am doing a morale roast."
Brann drew a tight circle around his own boots and stepped, three paces sideways without moving his feet. Circle three tricks, neat and practical. He reappeared by the back window and smashed the board with his elbow. "Stall them," he snapped. He was not going to die in an old house for two gold coins.
"Professional," Edda barked after him, angry that he had just made them sound unprofessional.
Fizz zipped after Brann. "Oh no you do not," he said, and spat a string of sparks along the window frame. The old tar whoomped like a cat startled by its own sneeze.
The kidnappers froze. Edda’s eyes went wide, reflecting the wild shimmer of Fizz’s fire aura. Rusk, still half-collapsed in the broken chair, let out a strangled grunt. Brann’s careful, professional mask cracked for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening as his clean air-cuts fizzled against John’s compressed field.
Then Fizz struck.
He zipped sideways like a thrown coal and spat a jet of flame directly across Edda’s forearm. The air-ribbon she had been shaping dissolved in a scatter of wind and ash. Her fine sleeve smoked, embroidery unraveling as if it had suddenly decided it no longer wanted to be part of her outfit. A brass clasp popped loose and clinked on the floor.
Edda hissed like a kettle. "You little spark-rat—" She slapped her arm, shaking out her wrist.
Fizz spun in a perfect circle, his fur standing like a crown of fire. "I am not little," he declared, "I am concentrated. Like soup cubes. Only hotter. Would you like to be consommé or stew?"
Rusk lunged, still nursing his half-burnt eyebrow, his other hand clawing toward John’s face. His fingers looked like tree roots, big and clumsy but fast with spite.
John felt the void stir. He curled his palm, and the air bent inward. A dark sphere opened in his hand, small at first, then widening as if it were hungry. The boards beneath his feet trembled, dust funneling toward it. The kidnappers’ eyes widened.
The black hole palm vacuum pulled.
The air snapped like cloth tearing. Rusk’s cloak lifted. His half-loose trousers trembled, sagged, and then betrayed him entirely. With one sharp tug from the invisible force, his pants tore clean away and slapped into John’s fist, sucked into the little void like offerings to some undignified god.
Rusk howled in outrage, bare legs pale under the smoke-dark rafters. "You—you thieving insect spawn!"
Fizz doubled over in midair, cackling. "The stupid warrior, stripped by vacuum. Behold the fearsome Champion of Bare Knees. Tremble before the Fool of Underpants."
Edda’s eyes flicked down, then back up. For the first time, she barked a laugh, short and sharp. Rusk flushed purple.
Brann snapped his wrist again, trying to cut through the laughter. The floorboards rippled, a wave of air surging forward to sweep John off his feet. John’s field flexed, then compressed until it was no bigger than his fist. He drove that fist forward, and the black hole surged outward with it.
The wave broke apart. Nails and splinters and dust whirled into the sphere’s pull. A lantern tore from its hook and whirled past John’s ear. The air howled like it had been betrayed.
Brann staggered back, coat snapping tight against his body as the black hole tugged at him. His boots scraped against the boards. His perfect posture bent. That was enough.
John moved. He closed the sphere, stepped forward, and slammed his shoulder into Brann’s chest. It was like striking stone with stone. Brann grunted but kept his feet.
Edda, regaining her composure, tried to catch John from behind. Fizz intercepted her. He zipped across her face, leaving a comet-trail of sparks that caught in her hair and left her braid smoking like a torch. She screamed, batting at it with both hands, and nearly collided with Brann.
Rusk, now furious and half-dressed, grabbed for a beam to swing it like a club. John flicked his wrist, pulling at the weight of the wood with his field. The beam twisted in Rusk’s grip and yanked him forward, off balance.
"Stop pulling my stick!" Rusk roared.
Fizz spat a stream of fire that licked up the beam. The dry wood whooshed into flame instantly. Rusk yelped, dropped it, and hopped backward, slapping at his scorched palms.
The fifth bell tolled outside, low and heavy, a reminder that time was slipping through John’s fingers faster than Rusk’s trousers.
John set his jaw. He could not waste another bell.
He snapped the spirit bell once more. The note slammed through the room like a wave of invisible water. Rusk slumped fully, chair and all, snoring again with his mouth wide open. Brann winced but held, his circle-lines shuddering. Edda dropped to one knee, glaring up at John with hatred, lust and singed eyebrows.
But their ambush was broken.
Brann’s eyes flicked once to Edda, then to the faint smoke curling from Rusk’s chest hair. He did not curse. He simply tightened his jaw and gave the smallest nod. "Fall back."
Edda snarled. "We cannot—"
"Fall back," Brann repeated, sharper. "Not here."
Edda hesitated, then snapped her wrist and dispelled the half-formed ribbons of air. She grabbed Rusk by his collar and hauled him upright. Rusk whined about his pants, then realized no one cared.
The three slipped toward the window Brann had opened.
John did not chase. He knew what mattered the most. The heart magic academy exam. He had his token — no, he did not yet, he reminded himself, his mind jerking toward the Bent Penny. The token was not in his hand. He needed it. He needed it more than chasing the enemies.
He stepped out into the street.