The Blender’s Bargain – Chapter 25

Archie

My hands fumble with the crinkled paper Garrick shoved against my skin. I hold them behind my back, out of sight. His whisper echoes in my head. Library.

These pieces of paper don’t feel like the pages we ripped from the ancient book. What’s going on here? I shove them in my back pocket when everyone is watching the altar.

Vessa’s guttural chant intensifies, weaving into the vortex’s deafening howl. Purple energy lashes out, striking the cavern walls, the air thick with the smell of ozone and something ancient, foul. She drags Mom and me closer to the rough stone altar. My charm gleams there, nestled amongst other strange artifacts. Branwen, trapped in Marlo’s mixer, sits nearby. I wish I could talk to her and figure out what’s going on.

Fear claws at my throat. I stumble, letting my knees buckle, pressing my hands against the cold, hard floor of the mine.

I need to read those pages. Now.

“Get up,” a guard grunts, yanking me upright.

I keep my head down, pretending terror has frozen me. It’s not hard to fake. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. My eyes dart between Vessa, the swirling vortex, and my mother’s pale, determined face. She gives me the barest nod. Stay strong. I’m forced down next to her.

My fingers snake into my pocket and scrabble against the paper, trying to make sense of the notes through touch alone. It’s impossible. How am I supposed to read this, tied up, in near darkness, with a psycho magic-wielder about to sacrifice my mother?

Garrick was the one translating this stuff, sounding out the weird vowels, puzzling over the grammar. Did he write it down somehow? My Lataran history knowledge is decent for a third-grade teacher, but ancient ritual language? Not exactly covered in the standard curriculum.

What if I can’t read it? What if I mispronounce something important and accidentally summon a giant space slug instead of sealing a vortex? There’s no time for a language lesson, though. It’s this or… well, it’s just this.

I have to try.

Vessa raises her arms, her voice reaching a fever pitch. The vortex pulses. The purple light deepens, sickening. The celestial alignment. It’s starting.

“The blood of the traitor Branwen will break the chains!” Vessa cries, her eyes burning with fanaticism. She picks up a wicked-looking ceremonial knife from the altar. Its edge glints purple in the vortex of light. She turns towards Mom.

No.

Time slows. My breath catches. I pull the pages from my back pocket, trying to glimpse the writing in the chaotic light.

He did it! He translated the text. He wrote it all down for me.

Rearrange. The word flashes across my eyes, sharp and clear. Branwen at the center. Charm beside it. Willing bloodline.

Willing. Not forced.

Through the panic roaring in my veins, the words of the incantation swim into focus on the page, ancient, potent. My tongue is thick and clumsy just looking at them.

Willing bloodline. That detail slams into me. Vessa’s plan hinges on forcing us, on sacrifice, but the ancient text specifies willingness. Does that mean her ritual is flawed? Could it fail even if she cuts Mom? Or… does it mean we have the power here?

If Mom and I willingly take part, maybe we can hijack this thing? Use the ritual to reinforce the seal, not break it?

It’s a crazy long shot, based on one word Garrick deciphered, but it’s the only hope I’ve got. Rearrange the artifacts, say the words, and choose to seal the darkness. It’s insane. It’s terrifying. But it might just work.

Vessa raises the knife high above Mom’s bound arm.

Now or never, Archie.

I close my eyes, shutting out the terrifying scene. I reach inward, searching for that tingling hum, that connection to the water I felt earlier. It’s there, thrumming beneath my skin, waiting. All around me, in the damp rock, in hidden channels, in the very air of this cavern. Water. My element.

Chaos, Mom’s voice whispers in my memory. Buy us time.

I focus. I push. Not a gentle nudge this time. I pour every ounce of fear, desperation, and nascent power into the network of water surrounding us.

Okay, water. Focus.

It’s always been my escape, hasn’t it? Lazy summer afternoons floating in the cool, quiet embrace of the lake behind our house, safe, the water holding me effortlessly. Then the move to Stellura, the vast, churning ocean right there, its raw power both thrilling and terrifying during coastal storms. I’d stand on the pier, relishing the spray, the immense energy of the waves crashing below.

It was always just… there. A constant backdrop, sometimes calm, sometimes chaotic. But this feeling now, this buzzing under my skin? It’s like plugging into that same power, the calm and the storm, all at once. It’s answering me. (Okay, still weird, but maybe useful?) It’s not just H2O; it’s… potential.

Energy thrumming, waiting.

Pipes groan within the rock walls. Cracks rip through overhead, dripping, weeping. With a series of explosive bangs, water bursts forth. Geysers erupt from the walls, spraying icy water everywhere. The floor becomes a treacherous slick.

Enthralled guards shout in surprise, their vacant expressions breaking. They slip, stumble, their grips faltering. The chanting wavers. Vessa whirls around, face contorted in fury. Garrick tackles her and brings her to the ground.

“The altar!” Mom shouts over the din of spraying water and Vessa’s enraged screams.

The guards are everywhere, slipping and sliding on the wet floor like clumsy penguins on ice. One lurches towards us, arms flailing, and Mom shoves me hard to the side, sending me skidding into a puddle while she dodges the other way. Another guard, less affected by the spray, regains his footing near the altar, blocking our path, his pickaxe raised, ready to strike.

Okay, this isn’t just a clear path. We have to fight through this mess.

“Distract him!” Mom yells, already scrambling past a fallen guard. I focus again, my mind yanking at a loose pipe near the guard’s head. It doesn’t burst, but a heavy chunk of rock, loosened by the water pressure, detaches from the ceiling and crashes down right in front of him. He jumps back, startled, giving us the split second we need to dart past him towards the glowing altar.

“Mom!” I call to her. We reach the altar beneath the raging vortex. The purple energy presses down, heavy, suffocating.

“What do we do?” Mom asks.

I raise the papers in my hand. “Garrick gave me the translations from the library book! It’s a counter-ritual!” I flip through the handwritten notes and curse at the water everywhere. The ink is smudging. “Vessa’s got it wrong. The text, it specifies a willing bloodline. Not a sacrifice. We have to rearrange the artifacts — the mixer, the blender, the toaster, the charm — and say the words ourselves. We have to reinforce the seal, not break it!”

I point at the altar. “The mixer in the center, the charm beside it. Now!” It’s a crazy gamble, but it’s the only one we have.

Working together, instincts taking over, we shove Vessa’s artifacts aside. Mom grabs the heavy stand-mixer — Branwen — and places it squarely in the center. I snatch the silver charm, its surface hot to the touch now, setting it beside the mixer. Just like the page told me to do. Mom adds the blender and the toaster.

“The words, Archie!” Mom grips my hand, her fingers icy cold but strong. “Say the words!”

I nod, taking a deep, shaky breath. I glance at the translations into phonetic words and burn them into my mind. I’m not even sure how they get there, but I close my eyes and see them. I open my mouth, the unfamiliar syllables tumbling out, awkward at first, then gaining strength, confidence. The power in the charm, in the appliances, resonates with my voice, amplifying it.

The vortex churns. The oppressive purple light flickers. Shifts. A brilliant blue-white glow blooms at its core instead, pushing back the darkness. It’s working.

Oh god, it’s working.

Hope surges through me, fierce and bright. We can do this. We can stop her.

Is this really happening? Me, Archie Sapnu, chanting ancient magic like some fantasy novel heroine? Just a few days ago, my biggest drama was a field trip and getting dumped by Lex (good riddance, honestly).

Now? Now there are talking appliances, possessed townspeople, and apparently, I can make pipes burst with sheer willpower. It’s bonkers. One-hundred percent.

And now… Garrick. Solid, dependable, ridiculously brave Garrick, who didn’t blink when my blender started bossing him around. He just stayed. Fought beside me, even when I was a drunken mess or trying to ‘protect’ him by running away like a coward.

He believed in me.

I keep chanting, and I don’t look away from the vortex. Behind me, the sounds of a scuffle get louder and louder.

As these thoughts flood my mind — the fear, the disbelief, the sudden, fierce gratitude for Garrick, the terrifying thrill of this power — the blue-white light in the vortex pulses brighter, expanding, pushing the oppressive purple shadows even further. It’s connected to me, feeding on the storm inside my head.

Maybe… maybe I’m not just ordinary Archie after all.

A furious scream cuts through the roar. I glance back.

Vessa.

She squirms out of Garrick’s grip, and her eyes lock on me, burning with pure hatred.

The ceremonial knife flashes in her hand as she lunges, hurtling across the slick floor straight towards us, a dark blade aimed at my heart.