Lyra’s head whipped toward me, panic sharpening her mascara-smeared glare. “What do you want, Persephone?”
“Rein it in,” I said, calm but firm. “You’re setting off the wards.”
“I’mnot!” she snapped—but her aura convulsed again, a brutal pulse that made the air tremble.
Wendy’s face went chalk-white.
“Lyra,” she whispered, voice thin with fear. “Are you—are you using your abilities in here?”
Lyra turned on her, wild-eyed. “No! I’m not doing anything!”
She was lying.
And worse—
She was losing control.
The hum in the air sharpened, pressure tightening along my spine. Jess shifted closer to me, heat flaring off her skin in a warning pulse.
Her fear, her anger began to fill the room like a noxious cloud.
Dev stopped twirling his knife.
Not dramatically.
Just completely still.
And when Dev went still, I’d already learned — that meantsomething was about to go very wrong.
Wendy swallowed hard.
“Lyra, you know the rules. No emotional projection. No persuasion. No psychomantic influence of any kind.”
“I said I’m not doing anything!” Lyra hissed.
Another ripple.
A spike of pressure.
Her face contorted — panic, not anger — like something inside her was clawing for the surface.
Jess muttered, “Bullshit.”
Ollie snorted. “Look at her twitch. Little puppet master thinks she can pull everyone’s strings.”
Lyra’s eyes flashed. “Shut up, Ollie.”
“Make me,” he sneered.
Wendy signalled the guards.
The door opened. A guard stepped inside, syringe in hand.
The whole room tensed.
“Lyra,” Wendy warned, “we can do this here or—”
“Outside,” Lyra snapped, standing so abruptly her chair toppled over.
