Chapter 22
Dreven
Iput the kettle on because apparently that’s what you do when the world is ending, and the woman you would murder continents for is in the shower pretending hot water can scrub off fate.
The cupboards have opinions about being opened by me. I ignore them and grab a bag of pasta and a jar of sauce.
“Eight minutes?” Dastian asks, already prowling. “I give her five before she remembers she’s starving and starts gnawing the door.”
“And we will have dinner ready.”
He nods. He is grimmer than I’ve ever seen him. It’s refreshing. His chipper, sarcastic self is getting on my nerves.
Voren returns from his circuit, a blade of winter sliding back into a sheath. “No movement on the lanes. The dead are still.” A beat. “For now.”
“Coiled,” I agree, laying wards so fine a Witch of Order would need spectacles. The cottage hums, then goes still. We need still. For a little while, so Nyssa can regroup. She needs a few hours where things aren’t trying to kill her.
Dastian prowls. Voren prowls quieter. I make pasta because the world has descended to its most basic setting: impending apocalypse with a side of perfectly cooked carbs.
The kettle clicks off. I pour. The tea steams like a promise I intend to keep.
The shower turns off. I check the clock. Seven minutes, forty-two seconds. Good girl.
Moments later, she walks in wearing her usual uniform of a black tee and leggings. Damp hair, clean skin, eyes like an ember someone tried and failed to stamp out.
“Tea?” I ask.
“Please,” she says, like manners might save us.
She takes the mug like a lifeline, takes a sip, and sits down. “Pasta? Nice. I could do with something proper.”
“It will be ready soon,” I promise, and just to speed things up, I wiggle my fingers over the pot, and it’s cooked. I drain it, add the sauce and return it to the hob to heat up. Dastian gets bowls. Voren stares out of the window. I dish up and slide a bowl in front of her. She twirls pasta like it’s a weapon and devours the first mouthful with a noise that hits me in unholy places.
“Okay?” I ask.
“Better than okay.” She points her fork at me. “Shadow-microwave. Noted.”
“It’s called efficiency.” I sit opposite and watch her colour come back. The ember under her skin is quieter. The house stays still. I’ll take the win.
She sips tea and meets my eyes over the rim. “Can you tell me when this stops feeling like a possession and starts feeling like a choice?”
“When you choose,” I say. “Start small. Fold your light. Set a rule. Keep breathing while you do it.”
She glares, but she does it. The ember tucks tighter, her pulse steadies under the noise. The cottage relaxes another inch.
I nod and leave her to eat in peace.
“Does anyone else think the Devourer is closer than we think?” she asks suddenly. “Like maybe it isn’t this ‘thing’ but an actual creature watching us chase our tails?”
“Yes,” I say, because lying to her is a luxury we can’t afford. “That is exactly what I think. It has learned to take on a form.”
“Learned?”
“Either that or possession. Doesn’t matter which; it is no longer an unseen threat. It is watching. Taunting. Learning your habits. Learning how quickly you are adapting to your new role. None of this is good. We need to get back to the Pantheon realm and actually try to make progress this time.”
“Wow, okay. Lay it all out before I’ve finished my food, why don’t you?”
“You started it, I ended it.”
