Page 51 of Eat, Slay, Love

I cannot move. My limbs are heavy and distant. Blood fills my mouth, tears warm my face.

Belvedere stands over us both now, suit torn, face streaked with blood, old and furious and very much alive. “This ends now,” he says.

I suddenly feel the slight brush of fingertips across my palm. A soft caress, followed by a reassuring squeeze. I don’t need to turn my head to see, and I can’t anyway, but my magic knows who it is immediately, using what’s left to reach towards him. You’re mine, it’s trying to tell him, and I’m sorry, and it’ll be okay.

Belvedere raises his hand to finish it.

I squeeze broad, safe fingers for the last time.

And the alley fills with a new surge of power.

Five distinct magical signatures hit the space at once, braided and fierce. My brothers’ magic crashes into the alley like a tidal wave, followed by the copper tang of Brooklyn blood magic, the cold drag of Queens shadow, the metallic bite of the Bronx, and the deep, tectonic weight of Staten Island earth.

Belvedere’s head snaps up.

Gabriel slams into him from the side, driving him off balance. Leo and Raf follow with coordinated strikes that crackle with amplified energy. Andres creates a new containment ring around the perimeter, reinforced by sigils from other boroughs that glow in layered patterns. Something small shoots through the containment ring, a hummingbird made of moonlight, hitting Belvedere square in the chest, cracking bone. The creature lands on all fours, unfolding a grin full of needle-sharp teeth.

Behind them, slayers fan out in a tight circle, magic hurtling through the air in five distinct ways, all aimed at and focused on the exact same target.

Belvedere roars as the combined magic presses inward.

I lose sight of the fight as darkness creeps into my vision.

Jonah’s hand is still in mine. His grip is weak but present.

We lie there, bleeding out side by side while the alley explodes in power around us, and for this terrible suspended moment it feels like Belvedere might rise above all of it.

I squeeze Jonah’s fingers once more. If this is where it ends, I want him to know I chose him. Tears stream down the side of my face, mixing with blood. I’m not sure if he’ll hear me, but I’m not sure I can speak loudly enough for him to hear. “I hate,” I manage to whisper, with great effort, “that we only had eighty-four hours together.”

A wet, shuddering breath from beside me. “I’ve loved you since the very first.”

Then, black.

19

My magic is what wakes me.

Because it’s pissed.

It doesn’t stir gently or hum with quiet awareness. It claws, reaching outward in quick, irritated pulses, searching for something it’s used to finding. It hits open air and keeps reaching anyway, as if sheer stubbornness might drag the missing piece back into place. The absence registers like pressure behind my ribs, like a limb that has fallen asleep and refuses to wake.

I open my eyes.

For a moment, I don’t recognize where I am. The ceiling arches higher than I remember, draped in the gauzy white fabrics my mother insisted on hanging when I was a child—long panels that shift softly in the breeze from the open windows. Sunlight pours through them in warm gold ribbons, the light diffused until everything looks softened, unreal. Peaceful in a way that feels deeply offensive.

Because my magic is still searching, still reaching, and still not finding him.

I sit up too quickly, the motion pulling at half-healed muscle. My body remembers the fight in flashes—Belvedere destroying my body on the pavement, the force of his magic crushing the air from my lungs, Jonah collapsing beside me—but the pain itself is distant, dulled by whatever restorative work my family must have done.

My childhood bedroom. I am in my childhood bedroom in the Magdangal house. The realization lands like a betrayal. I reach for my phone on the side table and check it for something I know I’m not going to find.

The door opens in front of me.

My mother steps inside, already dressed, already composed, her posture as straight and immovable as it has been every day of my life. Alunsina Magdangal does not look like a woman who nearly lost a daughter. She looks like a woman who has won a war. “You’re awake,” she says.

The question tears out of me: “Where’s Jonah?”

My mother pauses. “Who?” The word is a punch in the gut.