Lumos?
Midgard, eyes shut tight, froze for a moment. Before her mind caught up, faint orange light bloomed against the darkness behind her eyelids.
It felt like standing in midsummer sun with eyes closed, the rays burning through all the same.
This was Lumos? Seriously?
She didn't have time to puzzle it out. In an instant, she understood Leonard's plan—he'd thrown something to draw Fenrir and the two werewolf wizards' eyes, then hit them with a blinding burst of Lumos.
The perfect chance to run.
But she didn't move. If Fenrir had somehow avoided the direct flash, rushing forward now would be walking straight into his hands.
"Now, run." Leonard cut off the spell, whispering hoarsely in her ear.
He had forced more magic into it this time, making the already blinding light burn even harsher. Tears streamed down his face, his eyelids swollen as though scalded with chili, yet he kept them open.
He had to. Only by looking could he tell whether their enemies had really been caught in the blast.
Luck was on his side. All three were hit full force, unprepared for the sudden explosion of light in the dark. It felt like their pupils were being scorched through.
They doubled over, howling in pain. Midgard, hearing Leonard's order, opened her eyes and bolted into the alley.
Her vision wavered, edges doubled, the afterimage of the flash still searing. Even with eyes shut, the light had left its mark.
But she was better off than Fenrir. He had taken the full blast in the center, worse than the two at his sides, clutching his head in agony.
Her steps faltered. This was the best moment to finish him, but she hesitated—he was still her brother.
Then the memory of Duragold's body — one of the rational werewolves who had followed her, slaughtered in their own stronghold — froze her blood and sent fury boiling through her chest.
At that moment, Leonard caught her hesitation. He yanked her ear, snapping irritably, "Don't even think about it! Remember how tough werewolves are—you'll never kill him barehanded!"
His voice yanked her back to sense. She shot him a murderous glare, then froze when she saw his swollen eyelids. Pressing her lips tight, she sprinted down the alley.
She raced past Fenrir, nearly clear of the encirclement—when his ears twitched.
The sound of rushing air closing in and fading told him all he needed. His sister was running.
With no hesitation, he lashed out, claws like knives slashing toward her back.
But Leonard was clinging to her.
Eyes stinging red, he felt the attack coming from behind. At least, he thought bitterly, it wasn't a full moon. Werewolf claws and fangs now could only pass on some wolfish instincts, not the full curse.
The wound itself—well, unless it cut him clean in half, Essence of Dittany could fix it. But if his legs hit the floor separately, Midgard wouldn't have time to pick them up.
Wild thoughts spun through his head in frantic succession.
But the blow never landed. The world flipped violently instead, and before he knew it, he was dangling upside down, caught by the ankle in Midgard's hand.
Nice save.
Leonard almost shouted his admiration—then warm blood sprayed across his face, metallic and thick. He heard Midgard grunt, low and pained.
She was hurt again.
Like a wounded panther, she leapt into the alley, grim-faced, setting Leonard down.
"I can't run anymore," she said coldly. "The potion that masked my scent is gone. The blood's impossible to hide. They'll catch me. You go—I'll hold them."
"No need." Leonard pulled a vial of Essence of Dittany from beneath his cloak, popped the stopper, and poured it over the gash on her back. The powerful potion stopped the bleeding instantly, coaxing new tissue to knit and close the wound.
Watching the injury heal, Leonard let out a long breath. Thank Merlin he'd brought Dittany. Otherwise, the person who had saved him more than once would have died here.
And he would have gone down with her.
Midgard, who had already resigned herself to last words, felt the coolness seep into her back, the prickling itch of flesh mending. She glanced at Leonard in surprise.
"You've got some rare supplies on you. Dittany this strong would fetch at least fifteen Galleons on the black market."
"What? That much?" Leonard gaped, momentarily forgetting they still had enemies on their heels.
That crook Jigger—he'd swindled him blind!