“Cut the bullshit, Barras. What do you want?” Ciaran said with a growl.
“What do I want? What do I want? What I want is to purge my city of vermin like you.” The viscount’s voice remained steady, even, jovial, as he said those repugnant words. I would have recoiled if I could have.
The viscount was not as steady as he appeared, though. As he spoke, I found I was able to move my pinky finger—the one that was wrapped around the silver dagger at my throat. I didn’t dare move it more than a millimetre, testing my control.
“You mean vermin likeus. Because you are clearly one of us. And how do you intend to do that exactly? There are only seven of you here, against my whole city. You will not succeed. You must know that.” Ciaran tried to match the steadiness of the viscount’s voice, but I could hear the edge of panic. I hatedmyself even more for putting him in the position of having to relive the most horrible memories of his past.
“You know, I was so hoping you would ask that.” The viscount smirked; his mocking smile made my stomach churn.
Fionn struggled against the gendarme holding him as the viscount reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit jacket and withdrew a flat, round object, about the size of an apple.
“You see, I knew when I bought the opera house that it had a connection to magic,” he spat. “That place is old—built before the fey wars. Beforetheyleft you here to rot.” The viscount twirled the object between his fingers with the dextrous skill of a magician doing a coin trick. “I didn’t know it housed one of your most powerful objects, though. Not until you broke into my little party and tried to steal it.”
He stopped spinning the Pentacle in his hand. I got a good look at it then. The sigil that had, until recently, marked centre stage. Carlotta had told him what I was doing—what I was after when she found me on the stage. Once again, my rashness, my impulsivity, my own selfish desires, had led to unspeakable danger. “So, I suppose I really should thank you.”
Ciaran was as still as a statue. Cold anger rolled off Rory in waves. That this most sacred object was in the hands of such a man.
“Now. It is my understanding that this object can be used as a weapon.” He placed it in the earth before him and moved toward me, tilting his head to get a closer look at my neck, where the tiny dagger had nicked my skin. First, he pushed the dagger in deeper, opening the cut; releasing hot blood from the wound. He dragged a finger through the rivulet, pushing violently into my skin to encourage more to pool at the small cut. He gathered my blood in his palm and on his fingertips. Ciaran moved, struggling against his captor.
“Ah, ah, ah.” The viscount wagged a bloody finger at him. But my hand around the knife didn’t budge, even though it seemed like he intended it to slide up a fraction. The viscount’s hold was slipping. Could he tell? I had control of this hand. I pushed the knife in a little further, letting more blood flow, just to keep the illusion up, until I was ready to unleash.
The viscount bent beside the Pentacle and began to trace symbols on the earth around it with my blood. They weren’t magical runes but Scion iconography. He murmured words that I could only just make out. “In the name of our Lord, Arda, I beseech you. To cleanse these lands of evil. Rid this city of the weeds which choke us. Tear them out root and stem. In Arda’s name, I say, this is La Verita.”
I knew from my lessons that the Pentacle was associated with Ishtar. Why did the viscount believe thathecould wield it as a weapon? Why was he trying to claim its power in the name of his god? I wasn’t sure. If I could have asked, I would have had Rory explain it to me. Nonetheless, panic, which had been sustained at a constant simmer ever since the viscount appeared in the cemetery, began to boil over.
Rory’s eyes were fixed on the blood symbols on the ground. Blood magic. One of the elemental forms of magic—not one we had spoken much of in our lessons. I knew little about it. What would happen if the Pentacle’s powers were activated? Were they activated by blood? There wasn’t much there; maybe there would have to be more. A blood sacrifice? If that was true, and the viscount needed a sacrifice to activate the Pentacle’s magic, would he kill me?
Ciaran’s eyes were wide with terror, confirming that the blood around the Pentacle was bad news. I needed to do something. Fast. I flung all my awareness into that arm, flexing muscles and tendons discreetly, testing how much control I had reclaimed. It seemed that my right arm was my own once more. Idid a body scan, attempting to move other parts from the tips of my toes upwards. My autonomy was coming back. The viscount, consumed with the ritual he was performing, didn’t seem to notice that his hold on me was loosening.
The viscount performed a final flourish, swiping the remaining blood on his hand over the Pentacle. Yes. That was bad.Bad, bad, bad. He rose to his full height again, shadows swirling above him—more like the spirits Strega Maria conjured than Ciaran’s shadow magic. All the while the walls around us shook. Cracks formed in the floor around the Pentacle, spreading out in fissures. I could not let this happen. Whatever he was about to unleash was not something to be trifled with. I was certain he didn’t realize what dark power he was about to awaken.
“So here’s what’s going to happen.” The viscount dropped his arms, his unholy ritual finished. I took that as my cue. The viscount loved to hear himself talk, and he didn’t deserve the chance to say another word. I exploded, letting the dagger clatter to the floor at my feet.
Black flames, which I had so recently discovered within me, shot from outstretched hands, now wholly mine to control. I flung those flames out toward each of the six gendarmes. Each of them fell to the ground in turn, writhing under the intense heat. I knew that pain. Had felt it when the black flames surrounded me in the cemetery. They were in agony.
Ciaran sprang into action, binding the viscount in his shadows before he had a chance to react.
Rory dashed to the Pentacle, kicking at the blood symbols that surrounded it. As he reached for the object, a gendarme tackled him and they fought, grappling, punching at each other, rolling on the earthen ground.
I turned to the viscount, who was now thrashing against Ciaran’s magic. I knew Ciaran had a debt to settle with theviscount, but so did I. And I could not let him fight this battle for me.
“Back off Ciaran, he’s mine,” I snarled, using my voice for the first time in what seemed like hours. Ithadbeen hours. I whirled toward the viscount. I was going to destroy him.
While Erik de Barras had been draining his reserve of magic keeping a tight hold on me, my own had been refilling. I was not going to waste this chance. I let my beast out of her cage—allowed all the rage I’d kept down for years to be free, finally.
I felt the change asIcontrolled it this time—inky black crawling up my arms, my veins darkening as I rode the wave of magic. My hair whipped around over my head, rising on my arms and the back of my neck as electricity prickled all over my body. My eyes felt different—sensitive, like they were letting in untold amounts of light. I saw how the viscount was looking at me and realized my pupils were likely blown—the same black as the veins crawling up my limbs, up my neck and my face.
My hands fell to my sides, each palm open, a swirling ball of black flames held within them. Fionn, Rory and Elena fought the gendarmes, who now had pistols drawn. Elena had one held within a shimmering gold bubble of her power. Rory straight up punched another in the face as he wrestled the gun from his grasp. Fionn used a blast of wind to send another back against the wall of the cavern.
But I’d had enough. All of it. I had kept this tempest in me shackled for far too long—as long as I could remember. I let the course of my life be dictated by those around me, never questioning whether it was something I wanted.
I let Carlotta dominate our friendship, always playing second fiddle, always deferring to her. I stayed quiet. I let myself be small and easy to digest. I had almost let Seff do the same—all too willing to let him turn me into a pretty little bride. I would have taken his name and had his children, and been a smiling,doting and pious wife. And on the inside, I would have screamed and screamed, until the horror of turning my back on who I was ate me alive. Until I turned into a gaunt shell of a woman—until all the light left my eyes and I was as empty as Seff’s mother.
It was only when I came here—Beneath Lutesse—that I met anyone who saw me:Seraphina. Not the chorus dancer, not a blandly pretty face, not a friend who could be pushed around, or a woman who could be molded into anything a man wanted. Ciaran and Elena, even Fionn and Rory, sawme. They saw everything that I was, that I could be, and instead of running scared, or telling me it was too much, that I should dim myself, that I should make myself smaller, they embraced me. I was home here. And I was not about to let this vile man, or anyone else, take that away from me. I was not small. I was not quiet. I would not be burned or broken.
The wind swirling around me was so deeply cold that I could see my breath. The viscount stared in horror for a moment. He drew a pistol from within his jacket. I laughed—an unearthly sound escaping my lips. It was somehow both deeper and higher than usual. Soprano and baritone. Lilting and singsong, with a primordial edge. I sent a blast of power that took the form of those black flames toward the pathetic pistol in Erik de Barras’s hand. The flames knocked it away with supernatural ease.
“You are a small, pathetic excuse for a man.” The primordial voice was unrecognizable. “And I have had enough of you.” I sent a blast of wind at the viscount, knocking him off his feet and sending him to his knees.
