“Yeah, well.” I swallow hard. “She's probably terrorizing her captors as we speak. Classic Esme—punching first, asking questions never.”
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, reading reports and pretending Corvin's “specialized team” isn't moving at glacial speed. There's something else brewing in Darkbirch—whispers in the corridors, conversations that stop when I enter rooms. Whatever Heathborne was experimenting with has the elders spooked, and nobody's telling the bookworm anything useful.
I glance at Mom, who's been staring at the same patch of dirt for twenty minutes. “How're you holding up?”
She gives me that smile—the one that doesn't reach her eyes. The midnight moon catches on her cheekbones, making her look like some haunted museum piece. Her funeral-chic dress is all Salem matriarch drama: black satin cinched at the waist, lace cascading over cemetery grass like she's posing for Darkblood Monthly.
“I'm still here, waiting to see my children gathered around the dinner table again,” she says calmly. “It's a matter of when, not if.”
“Your optimism is adorable,” I murmur.
I was annoyed when I learned we sent practically all our spirits to Heathborne after Esme, but now it doesn’t feel like we’re doing enough.
“Feels like we're sitting on our asses while Esme is gods-know-where. The coven should be mobilizing more than just Corvin's B-team now. If we’ve any chance of getting her back, we should be hunting that dragon with everything we can.”
“Corvin and Director Reinhardt are gathering intelligence on Heathborne,” Mom replies. “The clearbloods were damaged that night, but they're still dangerous. With our cover blown, we're looking at retaliation.”
“All the clearbloods ever needed was an excuse to declare war. Again.” I dig my fingernails into my palm. “But seriously, Mom—a DRAGON took Esme!”
“We don't know where the creature went.” Mom exhales.
“They've been 'searching for tracks' for days,” I make air quotes, “and we've got jack shit to show for it.”
Mom ticks off facts like she's reading from one of my research journals. “Southwest trajectory. Heathborne in lockdown. Clearbloods hiding a dragon that went rogue. Magic signature matching what fried Jax's nervous system. And—” she pauses for emphasis, “—it took Esme alive. Wanted her that way.”
I dig my fingers into the cold dirt above where Jax's head must be, like I could somehow transmit my thoughts directly to his comatose brain. The night sky stretches black as a chalkboard, stars scattered like someone flicked a wand carelessly. The moon hangs there, judging me.
I clench my jaw, pushing my nails deeper into the dirt. “If our situations were reversed, Esme wouldn't be sitting here playing cemetery gardener. She'd have already hexed half the continent trying to find me, probably burned down Heathborne for good measure, and be halfway to wherever that scaly bastard took me.”
Mom gives me this look—the one that says she's about to drop some Salem matriarch wisdom bomb. She tilts her head that quarter-inch that always precedes psychological dissection. “You two are almost polar opposites.”
“Um, yeah? That's like saying grimoires and grenades serve different purposes.”
“She's been punching her way through problems since she could make a fist. Resilient. Hard-headed. Ambitious.” Mom's eyes narrow. “But so are you.”
I snort. “Pretty sure you just contradicted yourself there.”
“Different weapons, same war. Esme's the witch who'll kick down the door and hex everyone inside. You're the one who'll spend three days finding the architectural weakness, then collapse the whole building with a single spell. Salem blood runs through you both.”
“We used to build forts in the cemetery when we were kids...”
Mom gives me her patented “I see your weakness” look. “Perhaps that's why you're so determined to go after her instead of letting Corvin and Director Reinhardt do their job.”
“Oh please. I'm determined because she's my sister. Your daughter, might I add. Why aren't you losing your mind over this?”
She glances down at Jax's dirt nap. “I'm spread thinner than grimoire pages, darling. But let's be crystal clear—going after Esme means going after a dragon. A. Dragon. Not some clearblood you can outsmart with a clever hex. I've got one kid in a magical coma and another kidnapped by a mythological nightmare. The last thing I need is you becoming dessert for a fire-breather.”
“Well, I can’t just sit here doing nothing. Plus, bonus—I'll escape before the elders unleash their new trial system. We need someone actually doing something, not more stupid trials for darkbloods to trip through.”
“Those trials produced our coven's greatest witches, including Helena,” Mom counters with that history-teacher tone. “Their return isn't coincidence. Dark times, etcetera.”
“I'm not a fighter, Mom. I belong in a library, not trials.”
“And you definitely don't belong solo-hunting a dragon. We have protocols. Trust the coven.”
I roll my eyes so hard they might fall out. “I'm not interested in your precious trials, but I can be useful with books and spells. I've been modifying ancient runes and?—”
“Brynn.”
