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Fabian stiffened and fell forward. Osric shoved Fabian away and scrambled back toward the console. He slammed a lever up, pulled a silver charm from his coat, and shouted an incantation.

The barrier wall and my circle flashed blinding white and dissolved into glittering dust. Behind me, another ward I hadn't noticed fell, revealing a door.

“Get them!” Seraphel’s voice boomed as the Conclave soldiers surged forward.

Osric opened the door behind my circle. “Bart!”

Bart scrambled off the floor like a frightened animal, dashing through the open door right behind Osric. The steel door slammed shut behind them, but the Conclave guards opened it seconds later, giving pursuit.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Smoke hung thick over the concrete floor, reeking of burned insulation, spent gunpowder, and copper. Through the haze, a towering mass of black mist veined with silver surged across the room, rising like a cresting wave above Fabian's collapsed form. Heartbreak coiled, ready to strike the fallen man.

“Stop!” Tristan's voice ripped through the ringing silence. He held out both hands, chest heaving beneath his torn shirt. “Destiny is safe. I'm safe. Fabian is down. Come back to me.”

The shadow froze. Silver light rippled through its dark core, pulsing before the shape unraveled into ribbons of mist. The vapor swept across the floor and rose above Tristan, a frothing cloud. It sharpened to a point and funneled into him through the sigil. Back bowed, neck arched, and arms flung out, Tristan roared as it entered him. His golden sigil flared, glowing through the grime on his chest before settling. Tristan collapsed onto his hands and knees.

Gasping and shuddering, Tristan crawled to Fabian, and gathered the man onto his lap. Black blood stained Fabian's shirt, and it was spreading.

“Fabian, look at me,” Tristan urged, pressing both hands against the wound. “Why aren't you healing? Where is the magic that sustains you?”

Fabian's fingers twitched, dragging across his collarbone toward his throat. A slender chain was revealed, and he tugged feebly at it. Tristan reached beneath the cloth, pulling free a small brass vial dangling from the links. The bottom was mangled. The bullet must have hit it. The odds of it had to be astronomical.

A harsh, rattling laugh escaped Fabian's lips as he looked upon the damaged charm. “Death can only be denied for so long.”

“I'm sorry,” Tristan whispered, leaning down until his forehead rested against Fabian's cheek. “I am so sorry about Ismah. I didn't understand then how Heartbreak could lead to neglect. I will do better. Please, forgive me.”

My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stand. The toll of using my gift as a weapon felt like a lead weight pressing into my skull. Wiping the blood from beneath my nose with the back of my sleeve, I stepped over the shattered glass and crossed the floor, picking my way through the detritus.

Alistair and Seraphel stepped toward Tristan, edging around the wreckage of Osric's machinery. Heavy footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway behind me. The guards returned, rifles lowered. They met Seraphel's gaze and shook their heads. Osric and Bart were gone.

Fabian's breathing grew shallow. His fingers slipped from Tristan's sleeve, knuckles grazing the dirty floor.

“Sever it,” Fabian gasped, his voice barely a breath. His eyes opened and focused on the ceiling. Centuries of bitterness drained from his features as if he looked upon peace itself. “Ismah,” he whispered. His head rolled sideways against Tristan's arm, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest stopped.

A low sob broke from Tristan's throat. He bowed over the body, shoulders shaking. I sank to my knees beside him, aching with physical and emotional exhaustion. Still, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pressed my face into the curve of his neck, and laid a hand over his sigil. I wouldn't take away his sorrow; he needed to feel it. But I could offer him the simple comfort of my love.

Seraphel raised a hand, gesturing for the guards and Alistair to fall back. The Conclave granted Tristan his mourning with quiet respect despite the threat Fabian had posed. Alistair went out to the front room, speaking quietly into a phone to summon cleanup teams.

Tristan's tears spotted Fabian's coat. With my mental barrier in place, I could only imagine how he felt. Guilt and relief that only magnified his guilt. Fabian's grudge had been valid, but the years he stole with magic had twisted it into a vendetta and twisted his mind into madness. Death was long overdue for Fabian, as was the release it provided. But it would take some time for Tristan to accept his part in it.

No sense of triumph washed over the room. Fabian lay lifeless on the floor, but Osric Taylor remained at large with his knowledge of Curse mechanics, and Bart, with his vast information of the Conclave and Curses, had joined him. Fury burned in my chest when I thought of Bart. The Hangover Curse had driven him to desperate measures, and Osric had exploited his desperation with false promises. Understanding Bart's agony did not excuse his choices. It only deepened the sting of his treachery.

Tristan lifted his head, wiping his eyes with the back of a bloody hand.

“Come on, sweetheart. We can't stay here.” I gently tugged his arm.

Tristan looked around the shattered laboratory, his shoulders slumped, and nodded.

Returning to the Conclave Estate was out of the question. We couldn't heal within those walls. We needed a refuge away from everything. We needed to go home.

Hand in hand, we stepped over the broken machinery and left the darkness of the past behind.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Let's get you cleaned up.” I tugged on Tristan's hand.

He nodded without looking at me.