Cautiously, August pressed a hand to his face. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but—like so much about his magic—it felt oddly familiar. A tingling at the back of his mind, like a forgotten dream. An almost-memory.
August fought his usual urge to overthink and instead let instinct take over.
He exhaled, then drew in a slow, steady breath, pulling on the darkness, drawing it in. It turned his blood cold, the shadowy force rushing into him like thick, icy water.
And then it stopped.
He sat back on his heels, exhausted, and studied Felix. The dark veins were gone, and the pink was already returning to his cheeks.
August breathed a laugh.
It actually worked.
With his gaze fixed on August, Felix pushed up to his elbows, acutely aware of the fact that he’d just effortlessly torn apart a squad of ministry officers. While wearing wielder cuffs.
It wouldn’t even take a twitch of his fingers for him to do the same to Felix.
And yet, fascination flooded the places where fear should have been. His pulse quickened—not with panic or dread, but with fierce admiration and a hungry curiosity. Every time Felix thought he’d uncovered all of his secrets, August found a new way to surprise him.
The rain weighed down his dark curls, and his rings gleamed like polished metal. How did he ever pretend to be powerless? To be ordinary?
“I should kill you,” August said, though there was no heat in the statement.
“Probably,” responded Felix. He wouldn’t even blame August for it.
“I have every reason to.”
“I know.”
August paused, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. Finally, he asked, “Then why can’t I?”
Felix grinned, trying for the one he’d used so often to draw out the flustered version of August he enjoyed so much. “Because you like me, remember?”
To his surprise, August actually smiled back.
Then, Felix’s surroundings snapped back in around him.
He remembered the ministry. Ashcroft.
Marlow.
He startled upright, gaze swinging around to where Ashcroft had held her at gunpoint.
Marlow pushed to sitting, and relief made Felix’s head spin. Her frock coat was missing, and she looked shaken, but she was alive.
Where were the others? Why weren’t they with her?
What had he missed?
There were no ministry officers left in the square, at least none intact, and Ashcroft lay on the wet street. Blood mixed with rainwater, tinting the cobblestones around him.
The shot had hit him in the leg, and he was sputtering curses and threats as he tried to staunch the bleeding.
The royal guards hovered nearby, but the youngest moved to crouch over Marlow.
Felix flared his magic protectively. He could handle the guard now. Easily. But the guard unlocked Marlow’s cuffs. He was releasing her.
As the guard stood, he looked to Felix. “I believe this is yours to finish.” He grabbed Ashcroft’s gun from the ground and held it out by the barrel.
