As her mother had told her, back when she was too young to truly understand the meaning of her words, fire was a conduit between the mortal world and Verloren. After the others put the rings in place around the house, she would use magic to tether Bastien to its walls so he couldn’t escape. Once the fire burned out, he would have no choice but to return to the underworld.
At least, that was the idea.
She took Armand’s hands, unbothered by the blood on his skin, and caged the candle between them.
The words of the spell had never left her, though Mallory had not uttered them again after that night so long ago. They came whispering back, the song she’d created for them sliding easily from her tongue. She had spent hours poring over her mother’sspell books. She remembered the power she had felt tingling in her fingertips. She could still feel the absolute certainty she’d had in her abilities, her lineage, herself.
Mallory Fontaine. A witch, through and through.
It was overshadowed by the seven years of emptiness that had followed. Seven years disconnected from petty magic. Seven years of guilt and resentment and anger, of being nothing more than a fraud.
She tried to shove those thoughts away, thinking instead of Gabrielle’s words, and trying so very hard to believe them.
He cannot take away what you are.
At first, nothing happened. Mallory felt her fragile hope start to disintegrate. She held tight with both fists, squeezing with every ounce of faith she had.
She was Mallory Fontaine.
Descended from Gabrielle Savoy. Daughter of Noele Fontaine. Her sister was Velos-blessed, and dammit,shehad magic, too. She always had. She always would. She was a witch. She was—
The windows shook. The walls trembled. The lock on the entry door was thrown and bolted shut.
Pain burned through Mallory’s chest, emanating from the scar at the base of her throat. She gasped. Her lungs tightened. The words would not come.
Armand’s hands enclosed hers, warm and strong.
She swallowed and spoke again. Her tongue became heavy. Every word threatened to choke her. But as she finished the seventh recitation of the spell, a sudden blackness yawned open between them.
A hole. A cavern. A doorway into nothing.
Mallory didn’t want to be surprised—but she was. She wasastonished.
It was working. Her magic was actually working.
Then the candle flame turned blue.
“Mallory… Mallory!” Voices called to her—first from far away, but growing steadily closer. Triphine, Lucienne, Béatrice, Julie… Gabrielle. “Mallory, it isn’t safe. He’s coming, Mallory, he’s coming, you can’t—”
The voices became screams… then fell silent.
Mallory peered around. The wives were surrounding her, their bodies hung from chandeliers and curtain rods, their throats slashed.
An illusion, she told herself. The wives were long dead. This was not them.
She glanced at Armand, wondering if he could see them, too, but Armand’s head was slumped forward. His eyes closed.
“Mallory Fontaine.”
Monsieur Le Bleu stood on the stairs, still solid and human—if an immortal sorcerer could be considered human.
“I am attempting to make this a respectable estate once more, and here I find you and my useless progeny pouring my finest vintages onto the carpets.” He sighed. “Do you honestly think you are going to lure me back into that hole?”
Mallory grabbed the knife and forced herself to stand. “I don’t have to lure you into anything. I just can’t let you leave. And lucky for me… you already did the hard work on my behalf.”
His eyes narrowed.
Her fist tightened on the knife handle.
