“Come here,” he says, drawing Grant over to where Maurice lies on the sofa.
Njáll watches with wary eyes but does not move to intercept them or to keep any of us away from Maurice. I am glad. Just because he apparently cannot consciously wield Maurice’s magic, it does not mean it will not flare up if he feels he or Maurice are threatened.
I do not know how either Jeremiah or I would react to that.
“Just see what you can feel,” Paxton says. Jeremiah steps out into the hall, voice quiet. “Give us an idea of what we’re working with.”
Grant nods. He drops to his knees next to the sofa, face paling even further as he studies Maurice’s slack expression. His gaze darts up to Njáll, then back to Maurice again.
“I-I can’t—”
“It’s like the meditation we did.” Paxton crouches next to Grant, hand heavy on his shoulder. “Just get your power to give you the shape of it. You’re already worried about him, right? That’ll help.”
Grant nods. He closes his eyes just as Jeremiah steps back into the room, though when Jeremiah sees what they’re doing, he snaps his mouth shut.
I know better than to speak myself. Instead, I watch with narrowed eyes and sense the moment Grant’s power swells, almost filling the room in an instant. We all react, even Njáll, who takes an abortive step forward.
“Something’s wrong,” Grant says, a tremor to his voice. His eyes are still closed. “It’s not—Something’s wrong.”
“What does it feel like?” Paxton asks, gaze darting to Njáll and then back again.
“It’s…” Grant makes a frustrated sound, hands curling into fists on his thighs. He’s wearing coral-coloured shorts, the edges bunched up too high. “Broken. No. Stretched?”
“Like someone pulled it?”
Grant’s eyes snap open and his magic pulls back all at once. “Yeah, like that.”
“How much is there?” Njáll asks.
“Erm…” Grant gnaws his bottom lip, then shakes his head. “All of it, I think. I mean, it feels like there’s more than when I saw Asher after everything, but Maurice has more power anyway, doesn’t he, so I don’t know—”
His words tumble into each other, and I want to reach out, but Paxton is closer. Faster. His hand comes gently down on Grant’s shoulder again to give it a squeeze.
“It’s good to know,” he says. “As long as Maurice has his power, he should heal.”
“The Huntsman will come tomorrow,” Jeremiah says. “Hopefully, Maurice will be awake by then.”
“I’ll stay the day,” Njáll says. He looks at me rather than the others, but he is not asking for permission.
“Very well,” I reply.
Jeremiah looks between us.
“Vlad. Come help me check on the fae?”
That is not truly a question, either. Grant is pale when his eyes meet mine, but he does not need me to comfort him when the others are here. I follow Jeremiah to the cellar and close the door behind us before we descend the steps.
Merletta is chained to a chair in the centre of the room and eyes us warily as we approach. The cellar has always been warded, even before we set wards over the rest of the base, and the Huntsman visits regularly to ensure the ones down here are fully charged. I feel them flare as she watches us, searching for any weakness.
Jeremiah sighs. His blessing spikes, magic leaving him in a wave, and in the next moment, Merletta slumps in her bindings, head lolling to one side.
I sigh. “Was that truly necessary?”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Me?” I shake my head. “I do not understand.”
“You and Grant.”
