Page 117 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“It went,” I said curtly.

“We accomplished what we set out to do,” Arabella added, more diplomatically.

That was our agreed upon story, which was too sensitive for public conversation. Though after what I’d felt in that ritual, after touching those ley lines and feeling something dark and familiar stir in response, I wondered if we’d contained anything at all.

Maybe we’d just given it a clearer path.

“Does that mean we can go home, my lord?” Thorne asked. “I could send word to the Sky Serpent tonight.”

“No. We don’t leave until we find him.”

Thorne knew who “him” was. He lowered his voice so that neighboring tables couldn’t overhear. “I’ve scoured every corner of this place with your shadow warriors. No sign.”

My jaw tightened. Pip was here somewhere—I could feel it like an itch between my shoulder blades.

“It’s a vast place,” Thorne grumbled. “Lots of comings and goings. Dark corners everywhere. A rat could hide here for years if it knew what it was doing.”

“Keep looking,” I said quietly. “I want every shadow, every crevice checked again. We’ll start fresh in the morning, cover every inch of this place.”

I wanted to start now, tonight, but my bones ached and my magic felt like I’d run it through a cheese grater. The ritual had taken more out of me than I’d anticipated, and I’d be useless stumbling around in the dark. Especially when I couldn’t trust my own judgment or be certain which impulses were mine and which belonged to the thing sharing my skull.

“About tomorrow,” Griffin said, “I’m expected at the Academia for the lecture. Emissary Pyrrha specifically requested an early afternoon time slot so the students could attend.”

“Fine,” I conceded.

“Thank you, my lord!”

Dessert arrived in a flourish of unnecessary pyrotechnics. My “Deconstructed Concept of Sweetness” looked like someone had taken the idea of cake and tortured it until it confessed its deepest secrets—a geometric arrangement of crystallized sugar, essence of vanilla suspended in temporal bubbles, and the theoretical essence of frosting. Arabella’s “Frozen Moment of Joy” actually giggled when she poked it with her spoon.

I was just raising my fork, hoping that focusing on the absurdity of my dessert would quiet the screaming in my head, when every instinct I’d honed through decades of paranoia fired at once.

The attack came from three directions simultaneously.

I moved without thinking, shoving Arabella down and to the side as a sickly green curse sizzled through the air where her head had been. My shadows erupted outward, forming a dome of protection around our table just as two more spells slammed into them. The magic made my defensive barrier spark and writhe. Through the translucent darkness, I spotted three figures in nondescript robes, already moving to flank us with magic building in their hands, aimed directly at my wife.

Professional assassins, judging by their coordinated movements. The kind that cost more than small kingdoms.

Something inside me snapped.

Not the cold, calculated anger I typically wielded. This was the fragment surging forward, no longer content to whisper and scream from the depths of my mind. It rose like a tidal wave, and this time, I didn’t fight it.

Because they’d tried to hurt her. Tried to kill what was mine.

I dropped the shield and let the fury take me.

The first assassin tried to dodge, but I had already reached him. My hand closed around his throat, and I pulled—not just at his flesh but at his very essence, the way the fragment remembered doing a thousand times before. He had enough time to scream before he simply ceased, reduced to component atoms that scattered like dust.

The second had better reflexes, managing to get off another curse that caught me in the shoulder. Pain flared, but it only fed the rage—both mine and the thing that shared my bones. I gestured sharply, and every piece of cutlery in the restaurant responded, turning into a whirlwind of sharp metal that pursued him across the room. He made it three steps before being reduced to confetti.

The third tried to run.

Coward.

I didn’t chase him. Instead, I reached out with my magic, grasping the very air in his lungs. He stopped mid-stride, clawing at his throat as I slowly, methodically increased the pressure. Part of me—the part that was still Kazimir Blackrose and not dancing on the edge of something ancient and terrible—whispered that I should keep him alive, interrogate him, find out who sent them.

But he’d tried to hurt what was mine. Tried to take my—

The assassin imploded. I may have gotten a bit carried away.