On the ground, Vina’s shroud of casual arrogance from her magical superiority was gone. Her hubris and brittle coldness depleted as she looked at the object in Amelia’s hand with disgust. I couldn’t determine if it was fury or defeat that placed the scowl on Vina’s face.
“By binding my magic, you’ll have to sacrifice yours to maintain it. Are you sure about this?” she challenged, appealing to a magic lust she believed they shared. Amelia did possess it, and the yearning for more power, but it came from her desire to protect her coven and the people she loved. Vina’s came from a thirst for unchecked power.
“It was either this or kill you. I can only live with one of those decisions.”
“You can’t bind my magic without restricting yours,” Vina repeated in a hiss to Amelia’s rueful, knowing expression.
“I know,” she whispered, “but you won’t be able to do more harm, either.”
Color drained from Vina’s skin. Her threats became pleas to stop. Amelia’s struggle to ignore Vina’s eyes eclipsing to black, the ragged huffs of breath, and her face contorting into a pained grimace made my heart ache for her. Sweat beaded on Amelia’s upper lip. It took everything in me to keep from intervening. Her face screwed into a frown as tears streamed down her face. Several times I had to close my eyes against her self-inflicted torture. Magic was heavy and stifling.
Amelia exhaled, faltered, and stumbled back. Catching herself, she lifted the knife to Vina, who’d made a few steps toward her.
“The wound shouldn’t kill you, but it needs to be addressed. You don’t have a coven who can help you. Go to the hospital. I hope they can save you.” A coven couldn’t heal the wound, but they could manage the pain. Magicless now, Vina couldn’t even ease it. Nor could her daughter. After moments of consideration, Vina stumbled to the car and nearly fell into the driver’s seat. Amelia took an impulsive step toward the car then paused. Straightening her back, she remained rooted in place, watching Vina intently as she managed her way into the car and drove away.
Amelia plopped to the ground, her legs crossed. She tossed the knife aside as if it had singed her. She stared at the blood-stained blade, her jaw slack, her eyes dull.
The corn and the trees seemed to sway in a chaotic rhythm in response to the magic and violence that lingered in the air.
“I didn’t think she would spell me. Thank you for your help,” she said to the right of me.
Cirrian managed to usher the look of ridicule from his face before she could see it. Pity replaced it.
“If she’d died, your magic wouldn’t be needed to restrict hers,” he said, extending his hand to help her stand.
“My mother’s life is worth more than my magic.”
From Cirrian’s expression, he didn’t share the sentiment. Either he adored his magic or hated his parents, or a combination of the two.
“Do you believe she shares that view?” he asked earnestly.
More tears spilled, and I pulled out of my state of confusion where I was unsuccessfully trying to make sense of the situation that involved Cirrian, Amelia, and Diehle—posthumously. I held Amelia as she sagged into me. She’d given up more than justher magic. Unable to ignore the image of Vina’s cold threatening eyes that accompanied her plan to use Amelia’s life as a bargaining tool, Amelia had given up all hope in her mother. Long overdue, in my estimation.
When she released me, the effort to control my disappointment in them leaving me out of the plan was waning.
“She’s angry with us,” Cirrian announced, the weight of his eyes commanding my attention. My eyes narrowed at the mockery in his smile.
Angry wasn’t the right word. I felt betrayed. Already in the dark about so much of my life, Amelia withholding this information stung.
“You would have tried to stop me and spent time trying to help me rather than…” Her eyes dropped to the ground.
“Than fulfilling your obligation to me.” Cirrian sauntered toward me, a darkly tainted smirk on his face. His eyes searched mine, which I kept on him, refusing to give him any more information.
Walking over to Cirrian with purpose, Amelia pushed the clawed object at him. It was filmed over in a rose color, as if it were holding a flower. Illuminated with contained magic. “You have the magic. And my mother has her life. That was our agreement.”
“No, I gave you options. You made this our agreement.” He leaned down to her with a poignant look. “You still have options, Amelia. If this is the one you wish to keep, then you are now the keeper of the thaumavore. The holder of her magic. You sacrificed yours to contain hers. And she knows this.”
“She understands. And this is her choice,” I asserted.
Amelia’s face was flushed, and she was chewing on her lip. She wasn’t second-guessing her decision; I knew it would be her choice if given the opportunity a thousand times. Cirrian haddeclared her the keeper of Diehle’s nefarious gothic object, and her mother knew it.
“Very well, then it is done.”
He was gone. Moments later, he returned, handing the thaumavore back to Amelia, the color of the flower energy duller than before. His mouth parted, and I seared a look at him. I’d dealt with him enough to know he was likely to say something that would make her decision worse.
“Once again, you’ve circumvented the rules,” I pointed out before he could voice whatever comment he was reflecting on. A half-smile lifted his lips when he turned toward me, his gaze boring through me. It was so breathtakingly intense I forgot we weren’t alone.
“Did I?” he asked softly. Then he was gone again, leaving no opportunity for debate or discussion.
