A twisted, darkened version of that love, of that idyllic cottage, a thousand stories I could make up about what might have happened there.
A fae queen looking for her heart.
Tendrils spiral and swirl, streams of magick pouring through the not-quite-place where that power lives—little pockets of realms between realms, the domain of the Goddess where all Crescent witches draw their strength.
At first, nothing happens.
Those tendrils flail wildly, uselessly. Everything is mist and shadow, undefined, nothing solid for me to see or grasp onto before it’s gone.
I push harder, dig deeper. My heart pounds in my ears and my muscles shake.
Somewhere distant, I hear a low, graveled, worried voice say my name, but I’m not done.
It’s been ages since I had to push myself this hard.
The last time was in the coven hall.
Esme Hawthorn and a handful of Ascended council members standing over me, testing me, seeing how far the limits of my gift ran.
Seeing how much they could get out of me.
And me, stupidly, thinking they knew best.
Of course they knew best. They were the teachers who’d guided me and mentored me since I was a child. They were the witches I was supposed to trust, the best of us, the most talented, the most powerful. Of course they wouldn’t let me get hurt.
That day ended with me sprawled out on the floor of the High Priestess’s office, my mouth pried open and a revitalizing tonic shoved down my throat to stabilize me.
It’s not going to happen today.
Not like that.
I’m ten times the witch today than I was then, and it takes a hell of a lot more to knock me down.
With one last push, one last deep grasp, all that power finally finds its target.
The answer comes to me in a flash.
A place I’ve been before.
Bustling streets and towering buildings. A mix of past and present, history and modernity. A home, somewhere in a quiet neighborhood, with a wielder inside I very much want to talk to.
A confirmation. Not quite an exact location, but good enough.
I release my magick, tendrils breaking, dispersing, retreating into me like a rubber band snapping against my skin.
“Boston,” I gasp, gripping Callum’s hand even harder as I’m jerked back into my body. “The wielder we’re looking for is in Boston.”
30
Callum
Boston, apparently, is a city.
A big city, according to Seren. It’s in the state of Massachusetts, in the nation called the United States, on the continent of North America.
All the details are hard to keep straight, especially when the world passing outside my window is like nothing I’ve ever seen.
We’re back in Seren’s car, speeding down an expanse of paved road wider by far than anything that exists in the demon realm. Other cars drive alongside us and pass us going in the opposite direction. Fast, so fast, in a way that makes me feel strangely nauseous. I go back and forth between watching the road and taking in everything flashing by, and keeping my eyes shut as I try to stave off the rolling of my stomach.
