Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
CADEN
A pit of snakes.
Emma had saved Saoirse by letting herself fall into a fucking pit of venomous snakes—then walked into my study like she’d come back from a casual stroll in the courtyard.
Needless to say, the redheaded knife-happy legend herself was now Emma’s biggest fan.
First briefing in my life that actually stunned me into silence.
And I hated how much I admired Emma for it.
Not just for the stunt—though, fuck me, what a stunt—but for the way she carried it like it was nothing. No theatrics. No ego. Only quiet, ruthless commitment. It was infuriating. And magnetic. And maddening.
The more I tried to keep my distance, the more spectacularly I failed. Resisting her started to feel more exhausting than giving in. So I stopped pretending. Stopped trying to push her away and accepted the inevitable—Emma was a part of my life now.
One night—Scotch in hand, both of us half a glass past restraint—I decided to ask about her translation. I expected her to shut me down, dodge, deflect.
Instead, she leaned in—like she’d been waiting for me to ask. And to my surprise, she seemed just as eager to talk about it as I was.
“As glad as I am to finally understand why I am the way I am,” she said, a note of frustration creeping into her voice, “I’m also disappointed by how little I still know about myself. And now, with our only source of information dead…” Her voice trailed off.
A pang of guilt should’ve hit me. But it didn’t.
I stood by my decision to kill the Elder without hesitation. I hadn’t mourned him, hadn’t regretted it—even if it left us with no further intel on Emma’s magic. And that whole “Gordon” story still seemed like a wild goose chase.
“How come you’re a Healer?” I asked, eyeing her curiously. “Was Julian one too?”
Emma bit the inside of her lip, hesitating. “He must’ve been. I can heal without having the actual knowledge for it, so…yeah, it would make sense.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, without the knowledge?”
She tilted her head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Like when you were poisoned? I didn’t know what I was doing. I just focused on drawing the poison out—not knowing how, or even if it would work. So I kind of…experimented.”
I gave her a flat look. “Again, I am deeply touched by your heartfelt concern for my well-being.”
She snorted, clearly pleased with herself.
I leaned back. “How come your translation is traceable inside a Collective?”
She shrugged. “I know as much as you do. But I think it’s simple logic.
Your translation is traceable because it’s magi-made.
While it integrates with the energy of the Metasphere, it doesn’t mesh with the Human world.
For me, it’s the opposite. I’m untraceable over there because my magic is man-made—I wasn’t born with it.
So, logically, I’d be traceable inside the Metasphere. ”
I mulled it over. “So outside the Metasphere, in the Human world, your translation is untraceable but still visible?”
Emma nodded. “Yes, my haze is visible but it can’t be tracked by any LiaPrism.”
“Are you sure it’s visible?” I pressed, wanting clarity.
“Yes! I’ve translated plenty of times in the Human World. Always untraceable, always visible.”
I arched a brow. “Have you ever tried translating without it being visible?”
Emma frowned, clearly confused. “Is that even possible?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But hell, if untraceable translation isn’t impossible, then why not?”
“How would I even try it?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
I hesitated for a moment, then suggested, “Would you be willing to portal out to the border with me and experiment a bit? See if we can figure it out?”
Emma smirked, a teasing glint in her eyes. “You’re actually asking me this time instead of sedating me?”
She whistled in mock awe. “Personal growth, Colt.”
I sighed. “Guess I deserved that.”
She crossed her arms, pretending to think it over. “Fine. I’ll go. But if you so much as think about trying to hurt me, I will rip your balls out through your asshole.”
Her tone was sharp, but there was a flicker of something almost playful beneath it—like the threat was half-serious, half-dare.
And for some weird reason, it made me smile. “Deal.”
The next day, we portaled to the border of Crown, and crossed into the Human World. As always, the air felt different—more grounded, less charged with energy. We found a secluded spot, and took our positions, standing across from each other.
“All right,” I said, as I watched her closely. “Now, when shooting out your haze, don’t focus as much on the emotion. You’ve got that part down, so focus on not wanting it to be visible. It’s like every other translation you’ve done—home in on your will. Make it invisible.”
Emma nodded; her face set in determination. She extended her hand, and shot her magic out—its familiar scarlet color showing.
“Dammit,” she muttered under her breath, clearly frustrated.
“It’s okay,” I reassured her. “It’d be insane if it worked on the first try. Keep at it.”
She shot me a dry look. “I hate it when you’re encouraging me. You almost sound friendly. It’s confusing.”
I snorted. “Noted. Now try again.”
She tried again. And again. Each time, the result was the same, and her frustration grew more palpable.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she muttered, her voice tight with anger as she failed once more.
“Calm down, Emma. Your frustration is overpowering your will,” I said, taking in her tense posture. “Do you need a break?”
“No!” she snapped, her eyes fierce. Damn, she was fiery when she set her mind to something.
She tried once more—and failed again. “Motherflapping fuck!”
I couldn’t help but grin at her outburst. Despite her growing frustration, the sheer drama of her reactions was rather amusing. She was so intense, and it made the moment feel almost absurd in a charming way.
“Just take a breath,” I encouraged, trying to stifle my smile.
She nearly glared me to death and I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.
“Emma, it’s fine,” I said, while I kept my tone calm and steady. “We’re trying something no one’s ever done before. If this works, you’ll be making history. You’re not failing here—you’re experimenting.”
Her expression softened a fraction, and the strain in her shoulders eased as my words settled in. I watched as the terse edges of frustration dulled, her breathing evening out, her focus re-centering.
And maybe it was stupid, but a flicker of pride stirred in my chest, knowing I had something to do with it.
The hours stretched on, slow and relentless. She kept trying, pushing past the exhaustion, shoving through the frustration, refusing to let failure win. Over and over, she forced herself through it. She was tenacious, I had to give her that.
But as the sun dipped lower, casting a warm, golden glow over the field, I realized she needed more.
Not only practice, but an edge. A push.
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice enough to hook her attention. “Tell you what—if you manage to translate and make your translation invisible, you get to hit me with it.”
Her head snapped up. “Hit you with what?” she asked, eyebrows knitting in confusion.
I smirked. “Your haze. Try shaping it into something solid—like a tendril you can actually wield. Make it tangible. Focus the energy on a single point, pull it tight, and force it to hold form—don’t let it drift like smoke.”
Her stare sharpened, suspicion flickering behind it.
“You want to hurt me?” I continued, as I observed the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides. “Here’s your shot. Take the revenge you want for what I did to you at Coastal. You want to maim me? Make me less pretty? Go for it.”
I let the words hang, let the challenge settle in. Then, with a slow, deliberate shrug, I added, “But if I see it coming, I’m fighting it off. So you better make it invisible.”
And just like that, the fire in her beautiful eyes lit up all over again. A sly grin spread across her face as my challenge sank in.
It took her exactly 0.7 seconds to shoot out an invisible thread of translation—and punch me square in the manly nuts.
Motherfu—
“Look at that,” she said, her grin widening with satisfaction. “Guess it worked.”
I managed a shaky thumbs-up—doubled over and groaning—while cupping my balls like I could somehow coax them back to health.
After that day, Emma and I settled into a comfortable friendship.
Hitting me in the nuts had finally satisfied her need for revenge, clearing the way for us to coexist as more than just two people bound by grudges.
We started talking about everything.
At first, only at night—quiet conversations in my study, stolen moments when no one else was around.
But soon, it bled into our days. We talked through missions, whispered during meetings I was supposed to be leading, and chuckled like chickens at childish jokes, laughing at things no one our age should laugh at.
After a week or two, I accidentally let it slip how Sean had a deep-rooted, borderline irrational hatred for the name ‘Walter.’
"Walter? Why?"
I shrugged. "Met two of them. Hated both. Said they were cocky, slick bastards with way too much gel in their hair. So now, in his mind, all Walters are alike."
Emma tilted her chin thoughtfully. "I knew a guy like that in a past life. Not a Walter though. Not the most fun to have around either."
Something ugly coiled in my chest. "He didn’t hurt you, did he?"
Emma snorted. "Hurt me? Please. The worst thing he did was talk about himself all day long. Though I did barely survive."
I huffed a laugh, but before I could say anything, a sudden mischievous smile lit up her face. And damn if it wasn’t distracting.
"You know what we should do?"
"What?"
"Call Sean ‘Walter McGrath’ from now on."
My grin widened, the idea of screwing with Sean more than appealing. "Oh yeah, I’m in. Let’s also change the name on his door. Make it official."
Emma’s eyes gleamed. "And slap it on his clothes."