Corbin’s face paled. “Yes. That’s true. Thank you.”
Next, Hendricks took us back to an archive room and sat with us while we pored over a book of Smithers’ sketches and letters to other artists. They included several sketches of my mother’s painting – including ones where she reclined on a sofa instead of in the chair – but nothing that showed the horrified expressions we’d seen.
There was nothing about Briarwood or magic or the fae.
The three of us trudged out of the gallery, spirits broken. Even Flynn dragged his feet, his head hanging. I was too dejected to even think about him now. I’d pinned all my hopes on the painting giving us a clue, and so far all we’d come away with was more questions.
We’d come up against another dead end. We needed to move forward, and as leader, I had to make that decision, even though it meant pushing someone I loved into doing something he didn’t want to do.
“We know what we have to do now.” I reached for Corbin’s arm.
He pulled it away. “Please don’t ask me to do it.”
“Corbin,” I grabbed his shoulders, holding his gaze with my own. “Nothing about this is easy. I’m dealing with the fact my mother might have tried to murder me. We’re all reeling from the massacre at the church and what Blake saw in the underworld?—”
“What do you mean, what Blake saw?” Corbin’s eyes narrowed.
Behind me, Flynn flinched.
“Ah, right, I haven’t told you about that yet. It’s not important now. What is important is that you get on the phone right now and call your father. Because this shit between the two of you has gone on long enough and we need him to get us into that museum.”
Corbin shook his head so vigorously that I was afraid it would roll off his shoulders. “I can’t.”
“I’m your High Priestess. My word is law around here. Call him.”
Corbin sucked in a breath. He opened his eyes. The wounds of his grief sliced through his irises.
“Okay,” he said, the word barely a whisper. “I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CORBIN
Call.
I stared at the phone on the table, wishing I had the power to fry the motherboard and melt it into a plastic lump. The only thing I could do was suck the air from my lungs, and fear was doing a bloody good job of that already.
My hands shook. I tried to move them from my lap, but they wouldn’t budge.
“Corbin, it’s not rocket science.” Maeve nudged the phone toward me. We were sitting in the beer garden at the rear of a pub. Flynn had gone to fetch another round, leaving me alone with Maeve and the phone call of doom.
“How would you know?” I shot back.
“Duh. I went to space camp. I’ve worked with rockets. Trust me, this is way easier.”
Right, I can do this. I’ve fought fae, looked after the coven, learned fifteen languages, and found my own brother’s body. I can make a phone call.
I grabbed the mobile phone in my sweaty palm and raised it to my face. I clicked the button.
The extension rang once. Twice.
No.
I threw the phone down on the table.
Maeve glared at me. “You didn’t call.”
“Nope.”
