He winced. Steeled.Letit unfold.
Then, he grew, as if ageing before the assassin. He grew to his current height. But his attention was on the blurred face.
‘Show me,’ he said out loud.
Some part of him called on his Empyrean power, that slumbering golden immortality inside.Help me see what happened, we need this to protect others, to protect the family.
Show me.
A headache began to echo through his mind, pulling slowly through his brain.
Show me, he ordered again as the image became clearer. As the mist of it shifted.
It replayed in slow motion. New things, clearer things.
His mother, fighting, her strikes harder and more ferocious. Even slowed down she was incredible. Somehow capable of both adapting to the assassin’s uncanny power, and keeping her Influence over Dylan when she realised that he’d left the nursery.
She turned, the Empyreal moving with her, and there was the face of the Empyreal that killed her. Remembered with the same surety as the stab of a blade.
Stark, vicious.
And strangely … familiar.
Dylan came out of the memory slowly enough, assured enough, despite the fear still thrumming through him with every beat of his heart.
When he blinked the world back into focus, something stilled and cleared in his mind for the first time in his life and he heard Bells say, ‘I know who it is.’
Her fingers disappeared from his temples as she bolted down the steps and straight out of the cottage.
He remained, though, chest heaving, and found his father at the foot of the stairs.
‘Are you all right, son?’
Dylan shook his head mutely, tried to swallow. He thought he would be, in a strange way. He thought seeing their face would finally eradicate the fear of a facelessthingthat he couldn’t combat, couldn’t prepare for.
But the ruthlessness of it … the almost hollowed cheeks despite the extreme bulk; the dark red hair. It was almost worse. It made itreal.
When they came outside, they realised Bells had run back to the car and jogged after her to discover her hauling something out of the boot.
‘Bells, what are you doing?’ Dylan asked, striding to help her.
She held the stained and charred piece of theDantepainting. They’d gently removed it from its frame back in Estwood, having stored the cracked wood somewhere safe in case there were any more clues on it, and because Nicole had nearly had a fit when Dylan suggested they just bin it. Apparently an old frame was just as important as the piece of canvas.
Now, though, he couldn’t figure out why Bells was hauling out the charred painting, until her wary, bloodshot eyes met his.
‘Prepare yourself, okay?’
Her words were honestly concerned, so Dylan did.
Then, she unrolled the piece with their father’s help.
And there, revived from his memories, was the face of the Empyreal that killed their mother.
‘His name is Alexander,’ Bells said. ‘And Kyan was supposed to have killed him over a hundred years ago.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Nicole
