Like stripping wallpaper or chipping away at a flaking layer of paint, you just have to find a good spot to start. I can feel thelayers of ancestral magic woven into every shadow and shape of this illusion. As much as I’ve tried to forget about all of them, the flavors of their magic are still as familiar as ever.
My mom’s magic was yellow and had a low hum when it was activated. I manage to find that one easily, and I worm my magic around it, tugging the thread of it loose little by little. The more I unravel it, the more of it I can feel as I absorb it into my own magic, and a swirl of unwanted memories washes over me.
The visceral, tender feeling of her magic wrapped around me as she soothed me back to sleep with a lullaby after a nightmare when I was only four hits me like a freight train, making a sob tighten my throat. Why couldn’t she have beenthatmother forever? I tug on the magic more and another memory tumbles free, of the first time she sold my magic. The image fills my mind like it’s happening right now, my mother kneeling down in front of me and conjuring a butterfly in her hand. I laughed and copied her, creating an even more brightly colored one that took flight and chased hers into the air. Then, she tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, told me she loved me, and asked me to do a small favor for her. My chest aches and Atlas squeezes my fingers.
My eyes flutter open, and I can see the illusion starting to flicker around the edges just a little. It’s working. Atlas reaches over with his free hand and brushes his thumb along my cheek. When he pulls back, I can see dampness glistening on his skin.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says softly.
“I do,” I say through gritted teeth, and close my eyes again.
I steel myself against the memories and keep tugging until every trace of her magic is gone from the tapestry, and then I start on the next. My grandmother’s, mint green and bubbly. And just like before, the sensory memories tied to her magic assault me as I loosen it and absorb it into myself. Sweet memories and painful, vicious ones all intertwined.
Sweat beads on my forehead and I open my eyes to look again. There’s a spot near the ceiling where the wallpaper is peeling back and I can see charred remains underneath. The smell of rot and moss is just barely creeping in over the illusion of the sweet, citrusy scent of fresh magnolias. I wonder if Rhiannan can feel the magic I’m stripping away. Is she panicking as she hurries back, dread filling her gut as she becomes more and more certain that I’ve gotten my powers back and broken free from my cage?
A petty smile curls on my lips as I imagine it. I want her to know exactly what she’s up against before she sets foot back on the property. I want her to understand how well and truly fucked she is. I don’t want to kill her, but I will if I have to. And I’m going to demolish what’s left of this cursed fucking land if it’s the last thing I do.
Atlas reaches over again and brushes a strand of hair off of my sweat damp forehead.
“A dozen more layers to go,” I tell him.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asks, stone rippling and hardening across his skin as he tries to keep his expression neutral.
I give him a soft smile and lean forward to brush another kiss to his lips.
“Just being here is enough. I’m so tired of being strong all by myself.” I can’t believe I’m admitting that, but it’s true. I don’t even know if I realized it before, but feeling his presence, his strength, his steadiness wrapped around me like a pair of sturdy arms makes me realize how alone I’ve really been all this time. No family, no friends, no one I could trust except for myself.
Another sob builds in my throat, and I crawl into his lap. He wraps his arms around me without hesitation and runs his fingers soothingly through my hair.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I close my eyes again, and this time, I use his energy as a shield as I peel the next layer of magic away. I focus on the feeling of his energy instead of the magic itself to keep the memories at bay. And little by little, I strip the illusion away.
TWENTY
ATLAS
“Rune, do you hear that?”
He tilts his head, his gaze shifted to the ceiling. “Ooh, this is it. The final piece.” He squeezes my hand and focuses. Within seconds, the low sizzling sound I was hearing grows into a fiery burst that pops and explodes above us before fading away to nothing.
When the air clears, we’re left sitting in the burned-out shell of a home. He did it. He broke the illusion.
“This is better,” he says, his tone steeped in emotion behind his confident exterior.
“That was incredible.”
It took hours to strip it all back, but he did, slowly peeling away the antique furniture, clean walls, and sweet-scented air until it was this. The truth.
He looks drained, his eyes rimmed red with the effort of holding back the onslaught of memories hitting him. He only mentioned it briefly, but I could tell they were taking a lot out of him.
He inhales and exhales slowly several times as he rubs the back of his neck. I reach out and gently massage his shoulders, smiling as he leans into my touch. There’s no sense of time here, no way to know if it’s evening or the middle of the night. For all we know, days could’ve passed behind this illusion.
I look at Rune as he scoots away and gets to his feet, taking in the scene around us. His expression is blank, almost numb, as he nods.
“She’ll come soon. She has to know by now.”
“We’ll be ready for her.”
