Chapter Twenty-Two
NIC
Laurel meets me at the apartment door after my argument with Enzo, ferocity in her eyes.
“Mind telling me what that was?” she asks, voice measured even as her fists clench. “I told you to convince him to stay away from the game, not rehash your childhoods.”
I grit my teeth to keep from rolling my eyes. “You were warned. He doesn’t listen to me, and he doesn’t like me.”
“Why didn’t you push harder? Tell him someone was threatening his Tentacles or something?”
I sigh, pulling off my fedora and hanging it on the doorknob. “The more he’s pushed, the more likely he’ll do exactly the opposite of what he’s asked.”
She scowls. “Your weakness where he’s involved is going to be your downfall.”
Enzo’s words reverberate in my head like a tuning fork.
Let me make my mistakes. Let me own them. They’re not yours to carry.
I purse my lips. “Whether he enters shouldn’t affect our efforts. He isn’t the heroic sort.”
Her mouth thins, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she treads to the kitchen, where a pot of fragrant soup bubbles.
“You made that?” I ask, coming up behind her, letting my hand graze along her lower back.
Perhaps she’ll take that as an apology. The last thing I need right now is to confront Enzo again, especially if he’s watched the secret I gave him.
Any mention of it with Laurel observing would undermine everything.
She ladles a scoop of thick stew into a bowl for me, which I thank her for and settle in, watching her stiff movements out of the corner of my eye.
As I eat, I mull over what she revealed earlier—that not everyone is equally open to her control.
What makes someone easier for her to puppet?
What is it about me that facilitates her access?
When the moonshard broke and cursed me, it drew on my years of deception, pretending—even to myself—to be someone I wasn’t. With Enzo, he was a thief through and through, and the moonshard built that into his power and curse.
So what might the shard have seen in Laurel when it broke?
I think back to the terror in her eyes as the starlight melted her skin. Could it have fed on her fear? Panic has the ability to stop us in our tracks, to make us flee or fight or freeze. Could it be she’s more able to access the people who are the most afraid?
I mop a hand over my face. Something is not quite fitting. Like there’s a piece I haven’t considered.
My mind drifts to the church, to Lola glaring like she wanted to incinerate me—and to the fear in her eyes that feeds the flames of her anger and her ferocity.
If Laurel catches on to the fact that Lola can channel both my brother’s and my magic, there’s no telling what lengths she might go to take control of that.
Laurel settles into the place beside me and begins spooning chunks of potato into her mouth, avoiding my eyes. But her left hand settles on my knee. A peace offering. Perhaps not forgiveness, but understanding, at least.
What if Enzo isn’t enough to protect Lola during the game? Or, worse, what if Laurel controls him, too?
I need someone there who has no magic, who will protect Lola at all costs. And if Laurel’s magic accesses people through their fear, who do I know who fears very little?
My thoughts churn, and then as I swallow the last bite of stew, they settle on one name.
Magnus St. James.
I chew slowly. St. James has been pulling out all the stops to search for Lola, and while I understand she doesn’t want to be found, that man would raze the heavens and the Deep to protect her.
She’ll hate me for this, but I have to make sure he—or at least his cronies—are at the game. Lola is better safe a prisoner in her father’s clutches than a puppet in Laurel’s.
“Don’t you think,” I begin, “it would be prudent to ascertain that St. James plans to attend the game?” I should probably be more subtle, but I can’t be bothered to dance around my point, not today.
She raises a brow. “There’s no way he would miss it.”
“Shouldn’t we make sure?” I try to sound thoughtful and not bark the words in her face. “It would be quite the disappointment if we arrive only to discover he decided not to participate.”
“How do we confirm without drawing suspicion?”
I ponder. “Ostena?”
She nods toward the door. “Go.”
I rise, collecting my fedora. Could she finally be trusting me to do this on my own? Perhaps she’s grown more confident in me than I realized . . .
But then she prickles into my eyes.
Of course not.
Not yet.
Twenty minutes later, I’m rapping on Ostena’s apartment door. When it opens, it takes Forsyth only a heartbeat to register who I am before he slams a fist into my face. Pain explodes as my nose cracks, and I spit fresh blood onto the floor before leveling his glare.
“Good evening, Mr. Lott.”
His split knuckles are already flying for my face a second time. “If you ever lay hands on her again . . .”
I catch his punch in my palm and shove him backward. He stumbles, growling obscenities.
“Ostena didn’t leave out the part where she tried to stab me, did she?” I step over the threshold.
“You threatened her.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with St. James thinking threats aren’t part of the deal.”
He glowers, lunging for me again, this time pulling a pistol from his belt.
I sigh. “Haven’t you heard? Seaspawn can’t die.”
“I don’t care if you die,” he snaps, cocking the gun. “I care if you suffer.”
Rolling my eyes, I vanish as the gun goes off, darting sideways to miss the bullet. I appear at his side, snatching the pistol from his grasp and pressing it to his throat. He pales.
Icy blond hair and a glittery dressing gown appear in my peripheral vision.
“Hello, Ostena,” I say smoothly.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“Don’t try to reason with him,” Forsyth says.
Her gaze flicks his way. “He’s going to shoot you.”
I grin. “Is St. James going to compete in Nocturne’s game?”
“If you think he’d let us tell you, you’re a fool,” Ostena says coldly.
“If you think that’s a satisfactory answer to my query, then you clearly don’t care whether Mr. Lott here lives or dies.” I massage the trigger and raise a brow.
She glares. “Do it, then.”
My heart double-thuds. “Do it?”
“Shoot him.”
She’s calling my bluff.
I look down at Forsyth, who bares his teeth, sweat beading on his brow.
Laurel’s presence creeps in, and panic slams through me.
She’ll pull the trigger, because in her mind, Forsyth needs to be disposed of anyway, and showing weakness will undermine the power we’ve gleaned from my reputation as the Liar.
So, in the instant before she takes control, I fling the pistol across the room.
It hits the wall and goes off, blasting a bullet into the window that sends shards of glass flying the exact instant my limbs go rigid.
I can practically see Laurel grinding her teeth in my mind’s eye.
Forsyth lunges, but she’s already reaching into my inner jacket pocket, curling my fingers around a piece of voratium she must have slipped in when I was focused on our argument.
Another wave of terror jolts through me as she blasts a barrage of illusions at Forsyth. Searing, burning, blistering pain through every fiber of him. He buckles, vomiting all over my shoes.
“Forsyth!” Ostena cries, leaping toward him.
He twists so hard his spine crackles. His eyes bulge.
I barrel against Laurel’s control, trying with everything in me to dam the flow of power from my core, to release my grip on the voratium in my pocket, to run from the room.
But she is in full command.
I can’t do anything.
“Stop it!” Ostena screams as Forsyth vibrates in her arms, seizing as the onslaught of illusionary pain grows too intense for his nervous system to bear.
“I . . . ,” I begin, and then I realize my mouth is not bound the way my magic is.
This is another test, just like the many others Laurel has given me. She watched me throw that gun, and she wants to make sure I’m on her side.
I meet Ostena’s gaze and repeat my question. “Is St. James going to be at the game?”
Tears track down her cheeks. “Will you stop?”
“Yes,” I lie, because I can’t do a damn thing to end this.
She swallows and squeezes her eyes shut. “He called us in today to tell us in no uncertain terms that everyone who works for him is to stay far away from Nocturne this weekend.”
At once, Laurel cuts off the magic and releases her grip on my body. I drop the voratium in my pocket and yank my hand out as though singed. The stench of Forsyth’s vomit stings in my nose.
Forsyth is no longer screaming, no longer seizing. He pants, staring blankly up at the ceiling, strings of spittle hanging from his chin.
“Shhhh,” Ostena soothes, rocking him back and forth, tears tracking down her cheeks.
How can the Laurel I once cared for—the one who was so kind and so good—not see that she is becoming the very thing she wishes to destroy?
“Change St. James’s mind,” I say softly.
Ostena lifts her eyes to mine. “No one changes his mind.”
“Be the first.”
“Or what? You’ll torture us again?” Her voice is hoarse and her eyes are full of hate I wholly deserve.
“Or your secrets may not stay secret.”
Her jaw clenches, and her hands clasp tighter on Forsyth’s sweat-soaked shirt.
She swallows, and in that instant, I know I’ve got her.
That secret I stole last time I visited is exactly the weapon I promised Laurel it would be.
Only this time, I’m wielding it to protect Ostena and Forsyth from what Laurel might do if given the chance.
“You’re despicable.”
“All in a day’s work, darling,” I say, tipping my fedora. “Do we have a deal?”
“I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“There’s always a choice.”
She glares. “You know just as well as I do that that is not true.”
Her words are barbs I could have spoken myself, and yet they still sting when they strike. “Good night,” I say, blowing her a kiss before striding out the door.
I walk as though in a daze. Along the hall, down the steps, into the golden sunlight. Across the street, past the boardwalk, through the sand.
To the sea.
Laurel is watching. She likely hates this. The sea is bad, it is dangerous, it is lethal.
I wade straight into it and drop to my knees, plunging my hands into the foam. But no matter how hard I scrub at my shoes, I cannot seem to get the stench of Forsyth’s vomit out of my nose.