And I believe him.
Because he doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t sugarcoat it. Doesn’t offer some weak, useless comfort.
He lets me burn—his forehead pressed against mine, fingers drifting down my cheek, the shadows curling close.
And then, with a steady hand and a smirk, he hands me the match.
Aurora
One Week Later
“Fucking useless,” I mutter, staring at my hands. Maybe the hellfire’s still buffering.
I am the Last Daughter. Wielder of hellfire. Queen of the underborne. A shifter. A shaper of war.
And yet?
I can’t summon a single fucking spark.
Emme sits in the dark corner of my mind, emphatically reminding me that if she had control, this would be easier.
Boo-fucking-hoo, bitch. If I’m going down, you’re coming with me.
The murder sprite in my head hasn’t said more than ten words since the night I should’ve merged with her … and didn’t.
Iain says it’s supposed to be instant, that two beings can’t share a body for long.
One always wins.
But we’re still here.
Me and her.
I don’t think she’s angry.
I think she’s waiting. Waiting for the moment I realize she’s right.
That sometimes, violence isn’t a choice. It’s a duty.
And when I accept that? When I stop trying to be soft in a world that wants me dead?
Maybe then she’ll stop waiting and we’ll become whatever it is I’m meant to be.
Which would be easier to deal with if Emme were the only problem.
But no.
I’ve apparently got layers of magical bullshit to untangle.
Iain told me I can tap into the magic of every Daughter who came before me.
“Generational magic,” he called it.
But he also warned me not to use it unless I had no other choice.
“It always costs something,” he said. “Something physical. Permanent. The kind of payment you don’t get to negotiate.”
Great. Cool. Can’t wait.
