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“Right. Betwixt and between.”
Loren’s mind spun as she tried to comprehend, the events of Kalendae breezing through her mind at a dizzying speed. “But I shielded the city.” She saw herself in her memories, standing only several feet from where she stood now, her aura forming a wall of white around the replica of the Arcanum Well. “I stopped the blast with my aura.”
“You didn’t stop it, you merely confined it to a smaller space. The Well still exploded, and it cut into the Veil like a hot knife sliding through soft butter. Such a sheer level of power, when combined with your rare magic, is unstoppable, Loren.”
Tipping her head back, she looked up at where the shimmering curtain ended, just shy of the ceiling of the tunnel, only a short distance below where cars drove and pedestrians walked.
“We believe,” Quinton continued, “that when the Well replica exploded, the blast of magic was echoed by something in Spirit.”
“The real Arcanum Well.” If that was true, then it did still exist. If only her father had given her the answers she’d sought at dinner the other night, instead of being so stubborn and selfish.
And if it still existed, then that meant her father, after transmuting the Well and binding its powers to his soul, had found a way to extract it again. To turn it back into its original form—or perhaps a new one.
For a moment, as she stood there, staring at the mistake her magic had created, she found herself hating him—hating her father. She knew it wasn’t fair, but she didn’t care. She hated him for keeping so many secrets, not just from her, but from everyone else he’d ever cared about. This mess was his fault—his, and the Phoenix Head Society’s.
Quinton looked impressed by her conclusion. “That is correct, Loren. And with the Well and its replica combined, answering one another’s calls, their magic sliced through the curtain separating life from death; Terra from Spirit.”
“Why have you brought me here?”
“I want you to find the real Arcanum Well.”
Loren’s mouth turned dry. “By going in there? Are you crazy?” If this curtain was a doorway into the spirit realm… There was no telling what would happen if she walked in there. Nor was there any way of telling what lived in there.
“You can track the Well, Loren. You wouldn’t have been able to before even if you’d tried because the Divide wouldn’t have allowed for it. Now that it has been weakened, and there is a way in, there is nothing to hinder the task. The Well can be found—by you and only you.”
“Except my magic is gone,” she said, grateful for this fact for the first time since Kalendae. “I told you that the first time you dropped by my school to threaten me.”
“I don’t believe it is gone. I think if you learn how to call upon it, you can do this for me.”
“And why should I help you?”
“Because we will kill you if you don’t.” Quinton’s answer was flat, voiced like a fact that could not be challenged.
Her breaths came faster as she scrambled for an excuse out of this, but the more she stood there, the more apparent it became that she was trapped. Quinton Lucent was the most powerful person in the world; whatever he asked for, he received. But this little fact didn’t stop her from saying, “Darien will—”
“He will what, Loren?” Quinton interrupted. His tone was cold and taunting, eyes hard as glass. “What will he do? He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” Two long strides brought him face to face with her, so close that she could smell his cologne, the scent of it nauseating. “Allow me to enlighten you on exactly what will happen if you attempt to work against me.”
Something pushed at her mind, making her tense. She tried to step back, but he grabbed onto her throat with a hard hand, holding her firmly in place. Eyes, black as sin, glared down at her as his magic hacked into her mind, showing her a terrible image. Just one, but it was enough to haunt her for the rest of her life.
The image consisted of a pile of bodies, their heads twisted at horribly wrong angles. They were covered in blood, their skin and clothes soaked with it. The faces of everyone she cared about—Darien and the other Devils, Dallas and Sabrine, Logan and Dominic—were blank with death.
Loren shut her eyes, moisture burning them. She fought to break free, nails ripping into the back of the imperator’s big hand. But he held firm, squeezing her throat so hard her eyelids opened again in a flash. She gagged, face turning purple.
Leaning in close, so close that his hot breath snaked along the side of her neck, he whispered, “I’m not afraid of anything that bleeds, Loren. And your Darkslayer bleeds just like the rest of us.”
He let go of her with a shove.
All the blood in her head drained down to her feet. She swayed in place, her tattoo burning her arm. “Don’t hurt them,” she choked out, her voice as ragged as she felt. “You can’t hurt them.”
“I won’t,” he said, the words sickeningly gentle, as if he were speaking to a crying child. “Not if you cooperate.” Quinton’s answer, no matter how softly spoken, echoed from all sides of her, and suddenly the ground was rising and falling, the walls closing in on her. The edges of her vision turned gray as a fainting spell beckoned her into its cold grasp.
Why here? Why now?
Worst timing. This was the worst timing for this.
Loren staggered to the wall, where she caught herself against the icy concrete. She slid her bags off her shoulder. They thumped at her feet, the medication tucked into the side pouch of her purse rattling. “I need to take my medication.”
There was a small smile on Quinton’s face, a smile that grew as he said to one of his men, “Bring her some water.”
