You are safe, I send along the tether without words, just intent.
I feel something warm and wry answer back.
You better be, she throws at me, the echo of her voice in my mind like a faint tremor. This is your big Demon of Earth show. Don’t trip.
I snort under my breath and use my magic to cleanse and dress. Next, I am off to start this whole Sowing Day business.
The council chamber in The Barrow is carved directly into the cliff face, its walls left raw and veined with glowing roots.
A round table of living stone rises from the center, smooth as river rock and shot through with faint green light.
Alaric and Jules are already there when I enter.
The Lord of Air leans against the far wall, arms crossed, silver hair tied back at his nape.
His wings are hidden, but the shimmer of their magic licks at the edges of my senses, restless as a storm front.
Jules sits at the table, legs tucked under her, a massive book open in front of her.
One hand rests absently on the slight swell of her stomach. The other taps a quill against the page as she reads.
“Dagan.” She looks up, smiling. “You look, hmm, less carved-from-granite than usual.”
“High praise,” I say dryly, taking the seat opposite her.
Alaric raises a brow. “So. You went to New Jersey after all.”
I level a look at him. “You and Kael would not stop saying the name as if it were some mystical key. I decided, for my own peace of mind, to prove you wrong.”
“And?” he presses.
I think of Alina in the elder grove, moonlight painting her skin, eyes fierce as she said yes.
“And instead, I proved you right,” I admit.
Jules grins.
“Knew it. Jersey girls rule! We’re just built different.”
The door swings open again.
Kael enters with Phoebe at his side, their fingers laced together. His ocean-dark hair is damp, as if they only just torn themselves away from some pool in his Tidal Lands.
Phoebe’s curls are piled on her head in a messy knot, ink stains on her fingers.
She moves with an easy, rolling gait that speaks of a lifetime spent on docks and decks, not in palaces.
Thorne and Delia bring up the rear, arguing under their breath.
“It is not hover?—”
“It is literally hovering,” Delia snaps, gesturing sharply. “You don’t have to walk me around like I’m made of glass, Your Inferno-ness. I survived learning how to drive on turnpike traffic. I can handle a Demon-fortress.”
Thorne’s jaw clenches, but his eyes are soft when they land on her.
“I did not say you could not. I said I preferred you intact. There is a difference.”
She opens her mouth, ready to fire back, then catches me watching and flushes.
