She stalked into the rest of the apartment, a snap of her fingers bringing about its end. Her mind was solely focused on destruction. Destruction of the living room, the kitchen, even the patio, until all that was left of the life she’d so carefully crafted was a thick layer of soot.
She smiled as she stared at the carnage.Thiswas what she needed. No strings. No attachments. Nothing to lose.
Just her and her magic.
Except, no. Not quite.
Sylvia stared down at her hand, now covered in so many more lines than it had been when she’d reached it out to a scared girl on a bus bench. Finding Katherine had felt like purpose. Sylvia had saved Katherine, but Katherine had saved her too—given her life meaning again.
Sylvia could destroy her home, but she wasn’t strong enough to destroy her heart.
Her fucking phone was ringing again.
She grabbed it, ready to smash the thing, except then she realized the ringing wasn’t her phone—it was her doorbell. She stormed to the front door, expecting to find an overzealous delivery man, but instead she was confronted with a very beaten-up Byron Chambers, holding an ice pack to his bruised forehead.
“About fucking time, Sylvia,” he snarled. “It’s over for Katherine Barnes.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Katherine paced her apartment, trying not to think about how she’d ruined everything.
But she had, hadn’t she?
She’d done a couple healing spells to take care of the worst of her injuries, but she’d run out of the rune before she could fully heal herself, and she couldn’t face going to Sunspot to replenish it. Her knuckles were still raw from slamming into Byron’s face. Her throat scratchy from screaming at him. Her whole body throbbing from the hits she’d taken—hits she’d given right back.
And he hadn’t even killed Lily.
It didn’t matter that he’d admitted to making altum. That didn’t make her feel any better about the dead girl in a bathroom, the girl who had snapped without any of the magical drug in her veins.
Katherine slammed her fist against the wall, the pain splintering through her aching hand. She wondered when the consequences would come. It’d be Fiona, or Henry, or god, even Sylvia, knocking on her door to say they were taking away her job, since Byron’s complaint would result in an immediate suspension, even with his confession about the altum. There were procedures for a reason. Rules Katherine was expected to follow.
They’d call a special meeting for it. There would be no letting her out on bail, no waiting until the next scheduled meeting to bring her totrial. She wondered how far her sentence would go. She’d lose her title forever. Maybe her magic too.
It meant nothing to her, anyway. All that mattered was Aestas—her family. And she had no chance of keeping that.
There was a knock at the door.
Katherine ran her hands through the tangled knots of her hair. There was nothing for it—she was going into her final moments as Aestas’ Executrix looking like a drowned rat.
She marched to the door, determined not to cry. Tears could come later, when it was all done.
But when she pulled it open, it wasn’t Sylvia or a squad of witches with pitchforks waiting for her.
It was Silas.
“Hi,” he said, his tall frame filling her doorway as he leaned against it. The breath whooshed out of her, relief popping like a bubble in her chest.
“Hi.”
Silas didn’t wait for her permission to enter. He simply did, as he simply did everything. There was something off about his usual polished appearance, though. He was still covered in a thin layer of dust and soot from the fire, and she wondered what he’d been doing that hadn’t allowed him time to shower. She searched him for injuries, for something to explain the pain that radiated off him like a beacon, but all she could find was a faint patch of red on his cheek.
He paced, trailing the same path Katherine had just been following, rubbing his thumbs along the palms of his hands over and over again.
Like he’d just used those hands to do something he regretted.
“Silas—” Katherine started, but he whirled, and the sudden force of his whole focus stunned her into silence. He stared at her, as if he was only now taking her in. The developing bruise on her jaw. The pair of cuts on her cheek. The tilt of her stand, her body’s failing attempt to alleviate some of the pain in her aching ribs. His growl was almost feral.
“Those aren’t from the fire.”
