“Let’s get right down to business, then,” he said, as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “On behalf of Aestas Coven, I’m here to tell you that you have officially been charged with the murder of Lily Woodson.”
Katherine ground her teeth.
“Nothing to say to that?”
She forced it all down, instead just giving him a small smile. “Thanks for the update.”
Byron’s grin twisted as he took a step closer to her. “One more update, as you call it. Vikrant Khatri is dead.”
Not what Katherine expected to hear. Not something going wrong for her, but something going wrong for—
Silas.
That her first thought was of the gut-wrenching sadness he must be drowning in was telling. She’d avoided thinking about her feelings since they’d slept together, but they were clearly there, rooted in her chest, tiny seeds that would grow into a massive tree if she let them.
“How did he die?” she asked.
“Official story is a heart attack. But…”
Byron gave her that sick smile again, and Katherine’s stomach bottomed out.
“Well, let’s just say people reported his son seemed a little… unsettled… when he returned back to New York.”
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
The spell to check that the wards had been fixed. Silas and Sylvia had joined their magic. She had fed unsettled magic to him. More than he knew. More than he’d been able to handle.
It wasn’t enough for Sylvia to ruin Lily’s life. Katherine’s.
She had to ruin the Khatri family too.
There was no stopping the anger this time, the surge of rage pushing Katherine’s battered body toward Byron before she even had a chance to piece together a rational thought. He didn’t bother using magic when he slammed her back down against the bed—she was weak enough that his fists sufficed. He laughed as her spine banged against the wall, then walked out, the door slamming shut behind him.
Katherine screamed. She kept screaming until her voice was gone, until her throat felt torn by razor blades.
She was going to get out of here, and she was going to destroy Sylvia for what she’d done.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The day of Vikrant Khatri’s funeral was sunny.
This, Silas registered from some faraway place, was antithetical. It was New York in November—gray bleakness was standard, a match for the colorless existence Silas had been living in since his father’s death. That he would keep living in, forever, thanks to what he did. But instead, the sun shone, beating down on the back of Silas’ neck.
He shifted his father’s casket on his white-clad shoulder. He didn’t look at the others sharing the weight with him as they walked toward the crematorium. Didn’t look at the hundreds of gathered mourners, witches and ordinaries alike, all here to celebrate a great man.
A great man who couldn’t even have a proper funeral. Whose family hadn’t been able to wash and prepare his body, because the official story that he died of a tragic and unexpected heart attack would be undercut if people saw his bashed-in skull.
Silas walked.
He tried to grasp at observations. Basic things—seagulls are loud;you just passed Anika on your left;your shoe is coming untied—but none of them would take. They eddied away, chased off by static. Drowned in the crashing waves of the last twenty-four hours. Burned away by the sheer exhaustion that crushed his soul down, down, down.
Noise. It was all noise.
Noise, and that one single memory. The memory of that… thatthingsurging out of him. The pain of it, and then the sudden freedom of that pressure dissipating. That momentary feeling of a win, of a sickness fought off.
The devastation when he saw the consequences of his victory.
He knew right away. Knew that Sylvia had forced that power into him.
