Mine to control, mine to command.
Their dark fire grows brighter, hungry and desirous.
Mine to control, mine to command.
It consumes the bleak forest beyond the town’s edge.
Mine to control, mine to command.
It consumes the abandoned buildings that line the street, the gallows and the pillories in the square.
Mine to control, mine to command.
It consumes the body of my stepmother, the body of the man who raised me as his own and sacrificed himself so that we might have a chance.
Mine to control, mine to command.
It consumes the charred body of Hunter Forsythe, the vessel for a demon prince my dad destroyed.
Mine to control, mine to command.
It consumes the body of the Archmage of Manhattan, a slow torture that blackens and blisters the skin, splitting him open like meat left too long on the grill.
Mine to control, mine to command.
Only the gargoyles and witches remain untouched. Protected.
The dark fire comes to me, and I lift my hands higher, commanding it to rise, rise, rise for one final task.
And then, with a terrible rage befitting an evil fae king, I turn that fire on Verrick of Wintermoon.
His clothing ignites. His hair incinerates. His face begins to melt from his skull, and yet those silver eyes remain locked on mine with a look of pure shock.
Of horror.
Of endless agony far worse than anything he’s inflicted on me.
And then, finally, of pride.
Don’t fear, little one. Everything is unfolding exactly as it should be…
His last words whisper through my mind, and a blast of dark energy slams into me, stealing my breath, locking onto my magic with a determination that rivals my own.
The tether to the gargoyles’ curse, now mine, just like he said it would be.
His earlier spells unravel, releasing the gargoyles from stone, bringing the witches back to consciousness.
Their orders fulfilled, the demon legions temporarily retreat, and light floods back into the town square, illuminating the full extent of the devastation.
No tree or building or structure remains standing. The snow has melted away, revealing the barren gray rock beneath.
The bodies of Brian Avery, Eloise Avery, Hunter Forsythe, and Lennon Forsythe are gone.
And there, in the spot where Verrick of Wintermoon burned to ashes—the dark-fae father who entranced my mother and created me just so he could one day destroy me—only a shadow remains.
* * *
“I don’t know what happens next,” I admit, stepping through the ashes of what used to be the inn.
