“I don’t know what you mean.” Margo’s hands rose to push him off, but he didn’t budge.
“Go!” Emmaline’s fingers flew over her old speak-easy, summoning Cassidy’s symbols with a speed born of panic and fury. They might need a healer before the night was done.
“I’m going too.” Aeren stepped up beside Ursula. Light bled from her palms, no dramatic flare, just a thin line of raw force that cracked against the floor. She flicked her wrist, and it slashed through a nearby wine rack, splitting the wood cleanly before searing the glass into molten puddles and leaving nothing but smoking ash behind.
Ursula and Emmaline stared.
“That kind of power—” Emmaline’s voice scraped out, half awe, half disbelief.
“I swore I’d be able to fight back after what he did.” Aeren’s grip tightened around the power blazing in her hands, knuckles white.
“I’ll fucking say.” Ursula’s grin flashed dark and wild as she took off up the stairs. “Let’s go!”
Chapter thirty
“Lyrasaveus,”Emmalinehissed through clenched teeth as Ursula and Aeren disappeared up the stairs, their footsteps pounding overhead.
She’d already sent the call to Cassidy. Rider and Corgi would be there the moment they could, but Greymane’s estate was practically on the ass-end of the Vale. It was at least thirty minutes from downtown in an ultraglider, practically a lifetime if things went wrong upstairs.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Her nails bit into her palms. She spun, planting both hands against the nearest wine rack, shoving with every ounce of frustration boiling inside her. The rack groaned, tipping—but instead of falling the right way, it rocked back at her, fast enough to send her scrambling.
“Shit!” She dove aside, barely clearing the avalanche of wood, glass, and ancient wine as the whole thing slammed to the floor. Bottles burst, dark reds and golds spilling across the stone, soaking into her boots and splattering her calves.
Wiping a hand down her face, smearing sweat and dust, she turned back to the projection. The image wobbled, jostled by the sudden slam of the doors bursting open. Both panels flew wide, rattling on their hinges before the view spun slightly—Margo must’veshifted at the noise—giving Emmaline a tilted glimpse of Ursula and Aeren standing in the doorway.
The pair stood frozen for half a heartbeat, shoulders rigid, chests rising hard and fast. Emmaline couldn’t see their faces from this angle, just the unmistakable tension in the way Ursula’s hand flexed and molten light danced around Aeren.
“What in the—” Caelith’s voice cut across the room, coming from somewhere just behind Margo. His words died halfway, drowned out by the scrape of boots on stone and a shadow slicing through the air so fast the projection barely caught it.
The view lurched again as Margo flinched, sending the necklace swinging wildly. Lantern light blurred with dark streaks and flashes of motion until the image settled just in time to catch Caelith slamming into the far wall, his body hitting hard enough to shake the nearest sconce. His head snapped up, face twisting, but the details were hazy, half-obscured by the necklace’s swinging motion.
Emmaline’s pulse hammered against her ribs as the projection trembled with Margo’s shallow breaths. “Why isn’t she saying anything?” Emmaline strained her ears.
The camera caught only fractured glimpses of Ursula stepping forward, Aeren right beside her, the pair closing in like wolves scenting blood.
There was a flash of Aeren darting past Ursula before the view spun again. For a second, the camera caught Margo’s limp hand resting on the table, then Aeren’s arms wrapping around her chest.
The projection pitched sideways as Margo was hauled upright, the crystal lens grinding against the folds of her gown. Soon, the picturedissolved into a chaotic blur—ceiling, floor, flickers of Ursula’s silver hair—before everything went dark.
“No, no, no—” Emmaline slapped the side of the speak-easy like that might help, breath coming fast. The only thing staring back at her now was her own warped reflection, smeared in sweat and wine.
“Damn it.” She wiped her palm down her thigh, her fingers trembling, then shook the device once more for good measure. Still nothing.
She had to get up there.
Emmaline crawled over the wreckage of the shattered rack, hands slipping in spilled wine, glass biting into her palms as she shoved herself upright. She wasn’t a fighter, not like Ursula, not like Aeren, but that didn’t matter. She could distract him. Drag Margo to safety. Anything was better than sitting down here doing nothing.
Her shoes slid on the wet stone as she bolted for the stairs, the cold, wine-soaked leather squelching with every step. She took the stairs two at a time, skidding around the corner into the hall, heart hammering against her ribs.
Beyond her, the sounds of the fight cracked through the quiet manor—furniture smashing, glass breaking, something heavy striking the wall hard enough to shake the floorboards under her feet. Caelith was fighting back now, no more theatrics, just raw power slamming into her friends.
Her stomach knotted so tight it ached, but she didn’t slow. Didn’t think. She just ran, following the noise like a beacon leading her straight into the storm.
As she neared the open doors, she pressed her back to the wall just beside the frame, fingers splayed against it to steady her shakinghands. One careful step at a time, her breath coming too fast, too loud in her own ears, she eased closer. Keeping her body angled away from the gap, she tilted her head just enough to peek inside without giving herself away.
“You think you can come into my house and attack me?” Caelith’s voice boomed. “I am a Lord of the Vale!”
From her spot just outside the doorway, Emmaline saw Caelith’s hands carve through the air, fingers twisting like they were pulling invisible threads taut between them. Lightning flared to life, veins of silver-white cracking between his palms, so bright it left streaks across her vision. The air itself hissed, sending every hair on her arms lifting with the charge.
