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We stared up through the silo, as if the answer to our questions was somehow written in the Cold War - era wals.
"He split into two," Ethan said, glancing back at Paige. "How is that possible?"
She grimaced and hobbled over to the table, where he leaned against it. "I have no idea."
We looked back at the Maleficium, which stil sat on the floor beside Malory. It had been reduced to little more than a book-shaped chunk of charcoal. A few hints of yelowed pages were visible, but mostly the book was a cinder that seemed like it might blow away if someone breathed too heavily on it.
But if the Maleficium - the vessel - was destroyed, what had happened to al that it contained? "Paige, what about the dark magic? The evil?"
She shook her head. "I'm not realy - "
"It's gone."
Malory's voice was quiet, and there was a melancholic thread of surprise in it.
We al looked at her. She was on the ground, stil on her knees, staring at her hands. They were stil chapped and raw, and they shook like she was an addict in withdrawal. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared into the distance, maybe ruing the fact that things hadn't turned out the way she'd intended.
"Gone?" Ethan asked.
Slowly, she turned her gaze on him. "It was in the book, and the book is gone. So it's gone, too."
"How do you know?" I asked, but I realized I didn't need her answer.
It was clear in her face.
Malory didn't look any better than she had before al this had started. She looked just as strung out. Just as tired.
She'd tried one more fix of black magic, and it hadn't worked. And now there was no more magic to try.
She had officialy reached rock bottom.
"She knows the magic is gone because she doesn't feel any different," I said. "Because she worked another spel, and she triggered the Maleficium, but it didn't cure her. And now the book is gone, so it's too late. There won't be any more Maleficium-inspired black magic, right?"
Malory looked up, and she must have caught the anger in my eyes. She looked away, tears spiling over her lashes. I wasn't sure that emotion was remorse, but maybe - sooner rather than later - she'd own up to the consequences she'd been so quick to ignore earlier.
"Then, what happened with Tate?" Ethan asked.
I thought back to what we'd seen and what had happened seconds before he'd split in half. "He touched the book. If Malory worked the spel but no other evil escaped, could it have, I don't know, funneled into Tate?" I looked at Malory. "Is that possible?"
"I don't know," she patheticaly whispered.
Ethan wasn't moved. "You don't know? You don't know?
You just decided to unleash al the evil in the world from an ancient book, but you didn't know about the possible outcomes?
Stupid, foolish girl."
"Ethan," I quietly said.
"No, Merit, she needs to hear this." He crouched before her, that new fire in his eyes and a thoroughly chiling expression on his face. "She didn't care to consider the consequences of her actions before. Perhaps now she wil."
Malory didn't answer him; she just sat on the floor, staring back at him with wide and horrified eyes, as if suddenly and fuly aware of her own falibility.
Al that work, al that research, al those spels - pointless.
Fruitless. She'd gambled everything - her friends, her skils, her lover - and she'd lost it al for the sake of something she thought was a sure bet. But the cards had been stacked against her, and the house always won.
I put a hand on Ethan's shoulder, and he rose and put a hand on my cheek. I think he meant not to apologize, but to comfort me for the things that would come, for whatever would happen with Malory.
"We need to know what just happened," Paige quietly said, and I could practicaly hear the magical gears clicking along in her head. "We need to know what he is - what they are. We need to understand it."
It was natural she'd want to know. She was the Order's archivist, and I had to assume she'd be writing al this down. But writing the history could wait.
"Right now," I said, "we need to know what they are and what they're going to do next. There's no teling the kind of damage they can do together." One Tate had been bad enough.
"Let's get out of here."
I helped Malory to her feet. She didn't speak and wouldn't make eye contact with me. But she alowed me to help her toward the door.
Ethan did the same for Paige, and our motley crew hobbled back down the halway and onto the elevator platform. Up we went, back into the world.
We stepped outside to the sharp, acrid scent of smoke.
At the edge of the field, the farmhouse was ablaze, red-orange flames licking the sky.
Had Tate - the two of them - done this? Was it a final act of vengeance? Seth had sworn to me and Ethan that he wouldn't let us stop him. Maybe the two of them had decided they needed to punish us for our interference.
Paige muffled a sob with a hand, horror in her eyes as she stared at her home. And then she started running. For an injured sorceress, she moved pretty wel.
I handed Malory over to Ethan. "I'l get her."
"Be careful." He nodded, and I took off across the field. It was colder now, and the ground seemed to have hardened since we'd gone into the silo. It was like running on an upside-down egg carton - smal, uneven hils and valeys that made it impossible to plan your steps.
It nearly didn't surprise me when I stumbled and the ground came up to meet me. I stopped myself with my hands but scraped them up pretty good. Hoping no one had seen me fal in the darkness, I climbed back to my feet, wincing as a bolt of pain radiated through my right ankle.
But there was no time to wait for healing. Paige was moving ever closer to the house, and in her mental state, I didn't trust her to stay safe.
I muttered out a curse just to make myself feel better and ran-limped forward as wel as I could. I vaulted the fence and was immediately assaulted by the heat from the blaze. Acrid smoke poured from the house, and fire poured from the windows.
Paige, her arm crooked around her face, was edging toward the front door.
"Paige!" I caled out, but she didn't stop. She didn't even glance back. Of course, she may not have heard me. The fire roared like a jet engine, wood cracking and splitting as bits of the farmhouse's interior fel.
I wasn't a big fan of fire. I'd burned myself on an errant bottle rocket as a child, and the thought of moving closer to a raging inferno wasn't exactly comfortable. But I was immortal; she was not. There was only one thing to do.
I puled the neck of my shirt over my mouth into a make-do mask and moved forward.
