"Enough!" Sable's voice cuts through our bickering like a holy machete. "I can't take all this arguing. Can we focus on the actual crisis here?"
Braxos frowns, his borrowed face scrunching up like he just bit into a lemon. "The Soul Stone is immensely powerful. In the wrong hands, it could spell disaster for all realms."
I throw my hands up, exasperated. "Great. Fantastic. Why don't we all sit around and discuss the ethical implications while Lilith turns Phina into a fucking piñata?"
Sable wrings her hands, her eyes wide with worry. "Surely there must be another way! A spell, or a ritual, or... or something!"
"Well, unless you've got a spare angel stashed in your back pocket and Rhyland's doppelganger, I'm all ears," I growl, my fangs itching to tear into something. Preferably Lilith's smug face.
"Actually..." Emily's eyes light up like she just discovered the cure for stupidity. "We might have something better than a spare angel."
I narrow my eyes. "If you suggest meditation or crystal healing, I swear to God—"
"Oh, shut up, you dramatic blood bag," she snaps, already grabbing the cookbook of witchy wonders. "I'm talking about Dani."
Sable leans over Emily's shoulder as she starts rifling through the ancient spellbook. "Are we certain it's wise to disturb her while she's in Zephyria?"
"You got a better idea?" Emily mutters, fingers dancing over weathered pages. "Because right now, our options are either to bother Dani or let Count Dramatic over here commit suicide by Lilith.
"Now, if you'll all shut your pie holes for five minutes, I might be able to find that spell that'll get us a collect call to that windy realm."
"I resent thataccurate description," I grumble, dropping into a chair. "But make it quick. And Braxos?" I point at his Tony Stark face. "Switch to literally anyone else. You're giving me copyright anxiety."
Emily flips through the crusty pages, muttering under her breath. "God, you're such a nerd. Focus, would you?"
"Says the witch using a book that looks like it was written by Gandalf's great-grandfather."
"I'll turn your balls into my personal raisin collection."
"Aw, fuck you, too, sunshine."
I'm on my third bottle of top-shelf bourbon—because if I'm going to spiral into panic, I might as well do it with style—while Emily's been acting like a caffeinated librarian. Her nose hasn't left that ancient spellbook for the past hour, pages fluttering like nervous butterflies under her fingers.
"Any day now," I mutter into my glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. "You know, before Lilith decides to redecorate Hell with Phina's feathers."
"Got something!" Emily's victory screech could probably shatter glass. Her finger jabs at a page covered in what looks like drunk spider calligraphy. "This spell should work. Like magical texting, but way more dramatic."
She starts digging through her bag of tricks. "Okay, we need white sage, obviously. Sea salt—the fancy kind, not that Morton's garbage. Three black candles, preferably beeswax... and where did I put that amethyst crystal?"
Sable's already ransacking the kitchen cabinets like a crazy person. "Got the sage! And that Himalayan salt you splurged on last month."
Emily snatches up a yellow post-it note and her favorite fountain pen because ballpoints aren't aesthetic enough for magical messaging. "According to this ancient headache, we should be able to send her a note across realms. Assuming I don't accidentally open a portal to the demon dimension instead."
"Perfect." I lean over her shoulder, fangs itching. "Make sure you include all the greatest hits: kidnapped guardian angel, psycho demon queen, and for fuck's sake, tell her to move that divine ass of hers before I do something stupid. Again."
Emily cups the crumpled post-it in her palm like she's holding a baby bird. Her lips move in a whisper, ancient words sliding off her tongue like smoke. The air grows thick, heavy with potential, and the hair on my arms stands at attention.
The paper ignites—not with normal flames, but with something that looks like liquid moonlight. It burns away to nothing, leaving behind the scent of ozone and possibility.
"That's it?" I arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. "No explosions? No dramatic light show? Not even a tiny firework? How do we know if our magical message-in-a-bottle actually reached its destination?"
Emily drops her hands, exhaustion etched across her face. "We don't. Welcome to the wonderful world of mystical messaging—where 'read receipts' aren't a thing and we just have to hope our supernatural carrier pigeon doesn't get lost in the interdimensional mail.
Fan-fucking-tastic.My angel's life depends on the magical equivalent of hoping your text didn't get lost in cyber space.
Rhyland
45
