The meaning of her words was clear. She wasn’t worried about the risk to him. She was worried about what he might do to everyone else.
But the rage was gone. Clarity had replaced it.
“The only person who is going to burn for this is Sylvia.”
Anika looked at him, then at Wren, then at the scene behind her. Finally, she turned back to him.
“Make her pay.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Katherine wobbled.
She pushed herself up higher on her toes as she stood on the bed, stretching her arms up as far as she could. She didn’t know what she would do if she actually did manage to grab the screw on the air vent she was aiming for—Mission: Impossibleher way out of the room to find her friends and warn them what Sylvia was doing? Considering the fact that her body was already shaking just with the effort to try to reach the vent, she doubted she’d have the abs to pull herself up if she did get it open. It was a fool’s mission, but she couldn’t just lie here and let Sylvia do… whatever the hell it was Sylvia was going to do next.
She gave up on the tiptoes and tried just jumping for it, springing off the thin mattress and reaching for the ceiling. Of course, she came plummeting back down, having accomplished nothing except banging her knee on the metal frame on the way. She cursed, sitting down and pulling her knee to her chest. That one was going to bruise. She focused on her breathing, holding the tender joint, waiting for the ache to dissipate. All she could do was—
Scream.
The sound was ripped from her throat by the wave of pain, a sharp agony rocking Katherine to her very bones.
Her eyes shot open, revealing a world cloaked in a shimmer of red, lit by flecks of gold where the wards flickered on the walls. Katherinepushed herself up, struggling to move around the fire that burned up her bones.
Her magic was trying to break free.
No, not her magic. Something else.
Something she hadn’t felt in years.
Panic surged alongside the pain. She wasn’t supposed to feel this way, not again. She was settled. This was—
Another wave hit her, and she doubled over in pain.
What was this? Why was this happening?
She could barely get thoughts out around the agony. Trying to ground herself, she dug her nails into her palms until they bled.
Blood. Blood was good. This pulse, whatever it was, was bringing up power in her, and with blood, she’d be able to use it. She rushed to the door as she yanked at her magic and grabbed the handle, trying an unlocking spell. She yelped as the wards flared a bright gold, knocking her backward.
She scrambled up, rushing for the door again as another pulse came. It was weaker than the first two. Whatever this was, it would be over soon, and her chance to get out of here would be gone. She gripped the door handle, fighting through the sharp stabs of pain that suffused her body as she called up every spell she could think of. She tried to time her efforts to the flickering of the wards, but it was no use—no matter how many times runes flashed on her palm, they accomplished nothing.
And then they stopped flashing.
Katherine cursed, trying for that fire in her veins again, looking for that burst of color on her palm, but it wouldn’t come. Her magic was once again out of reach, crushed by the room’s wards.
Whatever had just happened—whatever Sylvia did—Katherine needed to be there to deal with it.
She bent down, ignoring the protest of her freshly bruised knee. The room had been specifically designed so there was nothing that could be used as a weapon, but the room had also been specifically designed by Katherine. She had built the cot that was the room’s primary furnishing—had gone to Ikea and spent the weekend figuring out howto put it together after the old bed had gotten so squeaky you could hear every movement from all the way upstairs, ignoring Fiona when she told her she should just use a spell because she was determined to do what any American could do and follow a set of instructions in Swedish.
Katherine went at the screws on the bed with her nails, her suspicions that she hadn’t tightened them as much as she should have immediately proving correct as they started to move. And within minutes, she was holding a bedpost in her hand.
She gripped it like a baseball bat and whacked the door as hard as she could.
The post ricocheted off the door with a loud clang. Reverberations shot up Katherine’s arms. The wards, at least, hadn’t been triggered by her attack—they only guarded against magic. Brute force was taken care of by the fact that the door was industrial metal, built by someone who was, unfortunately, much better at handling tools than Katherine was. But everything was fallible—wasn’t it?
Katherine raised the bedpost, sucking in a breath before she slammed it against the door again. She kept going, ignoring everything except the ringing noise of metal on metal. Her back tensed, then spasmed. Her arms turned to jelly. She lost feeling in her hands. Lost her ability to see anything other than the door in front of her.
None of it did a damn thing.
