I grabbed my purse from where it had fallen, and snatched the bag of groceries we'd bought that had somehow survived my outburst. I was going home with the peaches we selected.
Rook shot me a look that was equal parts pain and amusement. "Really?"
"They're good peaches," I defended, tucking the bag under my arm. "And I earned them."
He shook his head but didn't argue as he pulled out his phone to call for Bureau extraction. While he spoke in terse sentences to someone on the other end, I surveyed the destruction around us. It was in shambles, shelves overturned, products scattered, and broken. Magical residue lingered in the air, causing small pockets of distorted reality where time still moved oddly or gravity remained inconsistent.
"They're sending a cleanup team," Rook reported after ending his call. "Extraction in five minutes at the north entrance."
We made our way through the wreckage, Rook dragging the cultist along despite his injury. When we reached the entrance, I turned to him.
"That name you called me," my voice soft. "Firecracker."
He looked away, suddenly finding the unconscious cultist fascinating. "Heat of the moment."
"I liked it," I shrugged shyly. "It helped bring me back."
His eyes met mine, something vulnerable flickering in their amber depths. "Good."
We stood in silence after that, waiting for the Bureau team to arrive. Rook swayed slightly on his feet, the magical burn clearlytaking its toll, but he refused to sit down or relinquish his hold on the cultist.
"Thank you," I finally said. "For stopping me from whatever I was about to do."
He nodded once, his expression solemn. "That's my job."
"Is it your job to give me nicknames, too?" I couldn't help teasing, trying to lighten the moment.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Special circumstances."
As Bureau vehicles pulled up outside, lights flashing, Rook leaned closer to me, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"For what it's worth," he murmured, "you weren't helpless back there."
Before I could respond, agents swarmed around us, separating us as they secured the cultist and began assessing the situation. A medical team immediately moved to treat Rook's injury, despite his growled protests.
I stood clutching my bag of food, watching as they loaded the now-unconscious cultist into a containment vehicle. The reality of what had happened, what I had done, began to sink in. I had disintegrated three people with a thought, which I knew I would freak out over later. I had nearly torn a hole in reality over a grocery trip.
And yet, amidst all that chaos and power, it had been Rook's hand in mine, his voice calling me "Firecracker," that had pulled me back from the brink.
As they led us to separate vehicles, our eyes met across the parking lot. Something passed between us, whatever this prophecy meant, I wasn't facing it alone.
Chapter
Thirteen
Winter
Isat on the floor of my apartment, cradling Frank's fishbowl in my lap while the Bureau's medical team worked on Rook. They'd set up an impromptu treatment area in the living room, transforming the coffee table into an examination surface. Rook lay shirtless across it, his muscled torso exposed under the harsh blue light of healing magic.
The burn from the cultist's attack had spread, angry red tendrils snaking across his skin like some malevolent vine. Each time the medic, a severe-looking woman with violet eyes and hands that glowed with healing energy, touched the wound, Rook's jaw would clench, though he never made a sound.
"The magical residue is deep," the medic explained, her fingers tracing the edges of the burn. "It's designed to resist healing. Nasty stuff."
I tightened my grip on Frank's bowl, the events at the market replaying in my mind. The cultists appearing from nowhere. The attack striking Rook. The surge of power that had consumed me, transformed me into something both terrifying and exhilarating.
"Frank," I whispered to my fish, who swam concerned circles in his bowl, "I almost tore reality apart today."
Frank bubbled at me, his little fish face somehow managing to look concerned.
