The dryad forewoman stood. Her bark-covered hands held a single piece of paper.
“We have, Your Honour.”
“On the count of murder in the first degree in the matter of Tobias Ashford?”
“Guilty.”
“On the remaining thirty-seven counts of murder in the first degree?”
“Guilty on all counts.”
“On the charge of conspiracy to commit murder?”
“Guilty.”
“Racketeering?”
“Guilty.”
“Kidnapping?”
“Guilty.”
“Attempted murder of a protected witness?”
“Guilty.”
“Obstruction of justice?”
“Guilty.”
“Deployment of prohibited dimensional entities against a civilian population?”
“Guilty.”
The courtroom was silent between them.
Viktor didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His hands, still folded on the table, were white-knuckled.
“Viktor Blackwood,” Judge Ironfang said, “you are hereby sentenced to consecutive life terms in the Nightmare Realm’s maximum security facility. Your assets are forfeit. Your territorial claims are dissolved. Your name is struck from the Registry of Supernatural Houses.” She paused. “This court further orders an investigation into the Willowbrook Shadow Council for conspiracy, obstruction, and aiding a criminal enterprise.”
That landed. In the gallery, the seat where Margaret Thornfield had been was empty.
“Cassandra Blackwood, you will face a separate trial on charges of accessory to murder, blood magic violations, and assault. You are remanded to custody pending proceedings.”
Cassandra inclined her head. A slight movement, controlled, the only reaction she would allow herself.
Viktor was led from the courtroom in chains. He didn’t look at Hazel or Marcus. He didn’t look at anyone. He walked with his eyes forward, his spine straight, and his six-hundred-year empire crumbling behind him like dust.
The courthouse steps.Afternoon light, sharp and clean after the granite dimness of the courtroom. Hazel stood on the top step and breathed air that tasted of ocean and pine and freedom.
Marcus stood beside her. His tie was loose. His hand was in hers.
“You were incredible in there,” she said.
“You were incredible everywhere else.”
Azrael sat on Marcus’s briefcase, which he’d set on the steps. The familiar’s bow tie was perfectly straight again, though no one had seen him adjust it.
