“Soon,” I promised—to the monster clawing to escape my chest and the female I loved too much for words. “I swear to you,preta, this isn’t over. This was just the opening move.”
My fingers curled at my sides, and I gathered my magic, preparing to transport myself home…
A shockwave struck me out of nowhere, an invisible impact, powerful enough to throw me onto my back, knock the air from my lungs. A rush of sound roared past a second later, followed by the acrid scent of explosives.
Over the red-tiled roofs, a towering plume of black smoke rose above the city.
Right where my house used to be.
59
EMBERLINE
Dante had left an hour ago to face my uncle, and I was a ball of raw nerves, pacing and obsessing about everything that could go wrong.
“Don’t wreck the place while I’m gone,” he’d teased, brushing a kiss over my forehead, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Such a normal, husband-wife thing to do, and something inside my chest had ignited.
I couldn’t stop smiling as I rifled through his desk, that little ember beneath my heart burning bright. The wood was dark and scarred, polished to a shine around the edges by centuries of use. Dante’s scent clung to everything—smoke and leather, the metallic undertone of his magic.
The top drawers weren’t even locked, which was practically a written invitation to snoop.
I pulled out ledgers. Precise columns of numbers, assets, shipments, transfers. I ran my fingers over the handwriting, so perfect, so at odds with my feral husband. All the Dominico Empire’s dirty little secrets, all written out in neat lines, page after page of illicit dealings with all the Pentarch families… including mine.
A tremor shivered through the floor beneath my bare feet.
I froze, fingers still on the page.
The stones around me groaned, like they were undertremendous strain. The hairs along my arms lifted, and an all-too-familiar prickle crawled down my spine.
The wards were failing.
Even the air tasted wrong—ozone, metal, and something bitter, like burnt sage. My body reacted before my brain caught up; I shoved the ledgers back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and bolted for the stairs leading to the training room.
Dante’s house might have been old and crumbling, but his magic was meticulous. The power of his wards was still humming against my skin, but I stumbled beneath another blast of crushing pressure, something warm trickling down my face, and when I reached up…
Blood.
By the time I reached the top floor, the wards were collapsing.
No, no, no. I had to get out of here, but I needed my weapons…
I shoved through the training room door, the smell of sweat and steel and dust hitting me in the face. My favorite boots were still by the door, and I slipped my feet in, racing toward the pile of weapons—Dante’s blades, my knives, when the floor beneath me buckled.
Warding sigils carved into the beams overhead burned dull red, pulsing like heartbeats.
“Oh, that can’t be good,” I breathed just as the next tremor knocked me off my feet, and I careened straight into a stand of swords, hands sliding along blades, searing pain slicing up through my palm, my arm, as I battled to keep myself upright.
“Fuck,” I stared down at the gash from wrist to thumb, blood spurting from a vein. The entire room shifted, and I stumbled sideways.
I don’t have time to wrap this wound.
I have to get out of here.
Dust and splintered wood drifted from the ceiling beams in a lazy curtain.
With my good hand, I snatched the closest blades I could reach—two throwing knives and a short sword—and backed toward the center of the room, where the magic was the strongest. What would happen if I dematerialized through failing wards?
Bad things, probably.
