Chapter Sixteen
“Amber would be better for the lightning spell than crystal,” Thio says.
“Hm. Fair enough.” Seb scratches out a note. “Still think lightning’s overkill though. We’ve got smoke, thunder, fire—why lightning?”
I run down my list of things to include in our faux Galaxrien summoning. “A cultist mentioned Galaxrien would return in a tangle of lightning. Whatever that means. If lightning’s what they want, lightning’s what they get.”
Seb peeks up at me over the dining room table. “Even hot sauce and handcuffs? That sounds more like a BDSM kink than a cultist ritual.”
“Hell, they never said the handcuffs weren’t the fuzzy kind. This ritual’s going to include every single gods-damned thing any cultist has even so much as sneezed at in the years since this belief started.”
I’m not leaving anything to chance. Seb and Thio are working up spells to give us all the flashy shit. We’ll have a simulation of a demonic person, not Bel. And it’ll take place on the spring equinox, several months from now; that seems to be the date most cultists land on.
I probably should tell Ilbryen about it.
And I will—but not until it’s all locked in.
I’m of an ask forgiveness, not permission mindset.
This idea carries a lot of risk, but that’s part of what all this planning is going toward: making sure none of it ties back to me, and by extension, Bel.
It’ll be another cultist attempt, albeit one that involves all their professed beliefs, and it’ll fail spectacularly.
Which will, in turn, hopefully kill their insanity.
Gods. This is insanity, right?
But the cultists started this crazy game. I’m just playing it. And I’ll win.
Thio continues perusing the book in front of him. “The biggest issue still remains with the simulacrum of a demonic person. The components alone for that spell are…” He whistles, eyebrows bouncing.
“Whatever you need.” I bat my hand. “Just tell me what to buy.”
Seb beats his pencil on the notepad. “It’ll be several pounds of diamonds. Pounds. In addition to a few rubies, a specific type of dust shipped in from a demonic grave, and that doesn’t even include the—”
I put my hand over his spastic pencil. “I got it, Seb. Don’t worry about the cost.”
With a sigh, he nods. “Fine. What about the—”
A tray of chicken sandwiches thuds into the center of the table. Right on all our research, books, and notepads.
“Wow,” Bel says, hands on his hips. “I sure am glad I had three strapping men to help clean the table for lunch.”
Ah.
Yeah.
That might’ve been what he sent us over here to do.
His smile is forced, but his eyes shine with a hint of amusement to cancel it out.
“Um,” I start, ever so eloquently. “We were—”
“Fueling up for the championship game in a few hours?” Bel plops a stack of plates in front of me. “Good. That’s what you should be doing. Not—other things.”
His voice gets a little hard with the faintest trace of discomfort.
He knows what I want to try with this ritual.
And I know how he feels about what I want to try, the same reason that already clouds my head with doubt: that it might not work to get the cultists off his back.
Only where I worry about unnecessarily endangering him, he’s worried about me putting myself too close to this.
In the week since the Silver Hound party, we had a quiet New Year’s and spent a much-needed few days off recouping.
The Hellhounds won the home stadium in the coin toss, so the Dragons get to design the field; which means I should have spent these days reviewing plays.
But I don’t think we left the apartment—or put on clothes—until practices started again.
The playbook was open on my bedside table most of the times we had sex, at least. A valiant effort was made.
But Bel’s right. It’s game day; I need to get my head around this championship match. Any ritual we do is several months off. Maybe the cult will collapse on its own before then. They’ve only spent eight years gaining strength.
I snap my notebook closed while Seb and Thio shut their books with the posture of scolded children.
Bel keeps his hands on his hips, and at first I think he’s watching to make sure we clean up. But his eyes are on Seb’s notebook, pushed off to the side.
Bel pulls the notebook to him. “What’s a simulacrum?”
Seb glances up. “A physical body. A shell, really—it won’t be animated or have a soul or anything. It’ll look like a demonic person for the ritual. That way, no one’s actually involved.”
“And you’ll … sacrifice this simulacrum?” Bel asks softly.
Thio moves some of the books to an empty chair but stops, his gaze narrowing on Bel. I know that look—Thio’s realized something, and I frown, not seeing it yet.
“No,” Thio answers. “That’ll be part of the spells we set up.
It isn’t supposed to work, so the simulacrum won’t vanish or be consumed in the ritual.
There’ll be a lot of smoke and noises and buildup, but the ritual will ultimately fail.
” His head tips, eyes locked on Bel. “It won’t get hurt. And we could add extra safeguards.”
“Of course it won’t get hurt.” Seb stretches to dump the rest of the books on a table by the window. “It won’t feel anything. It’s a shell.”
But Thio’s still watching Bel, and my focus pings between them.
Until the same realization hits.
I shove to my feet and take Bel’s arm. He’s in his game-day sweats already, illusion magic in place, apple scent rich all around him.
“No,” I say.
Bel folds his arms over his chest. I don’t let go of him. “No?”
“We’ll use the fake body. No, you aren’t doing this.”
“I didn’t suggest anything.” But he pauses. “How much will this simulacrum cost you?”
“That doesn’t matter—”
“A lot, right? A lot of money that you could also use for—” He stops, and I know he was going to mention my charity work.
I haven’t gotten the payment from the lawsuit yet, but I’m still set to fund the Thrive Children programs; and yeah, fine, I usually throw a lot of extra money at similar stuff. But only Bel knows that.
He pivots, tongue working over his teeth. “Money that you’d use for better things. Not waste on a one-off spell. And the body just needs to lie there, right?” Another shrug, his eyes firming in resolve. “I can do that.”
“Absolutely not.”
Silence drops over the room. Thio and Seb share uh-oh looks. Bel’s frowning up at me, his arms still crossed, my hand still on his bicep.
I hear what I said, how controlling it is, but I don’t care. He’s not putting himself in this.
“The point is for all the cultists to see it,” I say. “To broadcast it. It’d be your face, your identity. And if it doesn’t work? If cultists still go after you, only now they know who you are? No way in hell am I letting you participate in this.”
Bel grips my tank top. I haven’t put on my suit yet, just that thin layer between his warm knuckles and my skin.
“I’m already a participant in this,” he hisses. “We can change my appearance for the ritual. Mask who I really am. I’ll lie there, right? I can do that.”
“No,” I tell him, damn near snap at him, but he’s asking to put himself in danger, and I can’t. “We’re doing the simulacrum.”
Anger darkens his expression. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. You’re mine, Bel, and I’m not letting—”
“Don’t you dare use that against me like this.”
I stop, panting, and the fury in Bel’s face shifts into hurt.
This is the line. Fuck, this is the line, the one I’m always terrified I’ll cross.
All the fight drains out of me.
“Shit. Shit, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” I tug on him, and to my surprise and relief and complete unworthiness, he relents and drops against my chest. I bundle my arms around him and bury my nose in his curls, eyes stinging from the release of fear.
No, of outright terror at the thought of him being the center of this ritual.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my throat trying to choke off the words I know I need to say. “If you—shit. If you really want to do this. We can figure it out.”
His arms come around my hips, his head turning to tuck against my face.
For this beat, holding him, everything else softens.
The stiffness in my muscles from pushing so hard in training.
The knots along the back of my neck from sleeping like shit and poring over research rather than going to bed.
The determined tug in the base of my stomach that tells me I’m not doing enough; Bel’s going to get taken from me and nothing I do will stop it.
“I want to finish this, too,” he says. “I never thought it would be finished, that I might actually get to see my—” He cuts himself off.
I put the picture of him with his cousins in a frame. It’s enchanted so we can hide it if needed, but it sits on the table next to Bel’s side of the bed—right in front of Emma Stone, which Bel did insist on keeping, as well as the fireball potion I gave him after our smash room date.
My chest aches with wanting, and I can’t even imagine how much he must ache for it, too.
“You’ve given me hope, Orok,” he whispers. “I know it might not work. I know that. But I want to try.”
I constrict my hold on him. “It’ll kill me if you get hurt.”
“Then we make sure he doesn’t get hurt,” Thio says.
Reminding me that we have an audience.
I meet Thio’s eyes, knowing mine are desperate. “We will,” I say, immutable.
Seb takes Thio’s hand. “That’s our top priority. Everything about this is to keep Bel safe. You know we’ll have his back.”
I drop a kiss to Bel’s head and hold there, breathing him in, and let my fingers brush over his pearl security necklace, his illusion magic covering it.
Gods, I want him safe. I want this over.
He looks up at me. And, for a moment, I see in his eyes all the stuff he’s avoiding. His own stresses that, no matter how hard I try to bear them all, still weigh on him.