30. Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
“Lyra save us,” Emmaline hissed through clenched teeth as Ursula and Aeren disappeared up the stairs, their footsteps pounding overhead.
She’d already sent the call to Cassidy. Rider and Corgi would be there the moment they could, but Greymane’s estate was practically on the ass-end of the Vale. It was at least thirty minutes from downtown in an ultraglider, practically a lifetime if things went wrong upstairs.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Her nails bit into her palms. She spun, planting both hands against the nearest wine rack, shoving with every ounce of frustration boiling inside her.
The rack groaned, tipping—but instead of falling the right way, it rocked back at her, fast enough to send her scrambling.
“Shit!” She dove aside, barely clearing the avalanche of wood, glass, and ancient wine as the whole thing slammed to the floor. Bottles burst, dark reds and golds spilling across the stone, soaking into her boots and splattering her calves.
Wiping a hand down her face, smearing sweat and dust, she turned back to the projection.
The image wobbled, jostled by the sudden slam of the doors bursting open.
Both panels flew wide, rattling on their hinges before the view spun slightly—Margo must’ve shifted at the noise—giving Emmaline a tilted glimpse of Ursula and Aeren standing in the doorway.
The pair stood frozen for half a heartbeat, shoulders rigid, chests rising hard and fast. Emmaline couldn’t see their faces from this angle, just the unmistakable tension in the way Ursula’s hand flexed and molten light danced around Aeren.
“What in the—” Caelith’s voice cut across the room, coming from somewhere just behind Margo. His words died halfway, drowned out by the scrape of boots on stone and a shadow slicing through the air so fast the projection barely caught it.
The view lurched again as Margo flinched, sending the necklace swinging wildly.
Lantern light blurred with dark streaks and flashes of motion until the image settled just in time to catch Caelith slamming into the far wall, his body hitting hard enough to shake the nearest sconce.
His head snapped up, face twisting, but the details were hazy, half-obscured by the necklace’s swinging motion.
Emmaline’s pulse hammered against her ribs as the projection trembled with Margo’s shallow breaths. “Why isn’t she saying anything?” Emmaline strained her ears.
The camera caught only fractured glimpses of Ursula stepping forward, Aeren right beside her, the pair closing in like wolves scenting blood.
There was a flash of Aeren darting past Ursula before the view spun again. For a second, the camera caught Margo’s limp hand resting on the table, then Aeren’s arms wrapping around her chest.
The projection pitched sideways as Margo was hauled upright, the crystal lens grinding against the folds of her gown. Soon, the picture dissolved into a chaotic blur—ceiling, floor, flickers of Ursula’s silver hair—before everything went dark.
“No, no, no—” Emmaline slapped the side of the speak-easy like that might help, breath coming fast. The only thing staring back at her now was her own warped reflection, smeared in sweat and wine.
“Damn it.” She wiped her palm down her thigh, her fingers trembling, then shook the device once more for good measure. Still nothing.
She had to get up there.
Emmaline crawled over the wreckage of the shattered rack, hands slipping in spilled wine, glass biting into her palms as she shoved herself upright.
She wasn’t a fighter, not like Ursula, not like Aeren, but that didn’t matter.
She could distract him. Drag Margo to safety.
Anything was better than sitting down here doing nothing.
Her shoes slid on the wet stone as she bolted for the stairs, the cold, wine-soaked leather squelching with every step. She took the stairs two at a time, skidding around the corner into the hall, heart hammering against her ribs.
Beyond her, the sounds of the fight cracked through the quiet manor—furniture smashing, glass breaking, something heavy striking the wall hard enough to shake the floorboards under her feet. Caelith was fighting back now, no more theatrics, just raw power slamming into her friends.
Her stomach knotted so tight it ached, but she didn’t slow. Didn’t think. She just ran, following the noise like a beacon leading her straight into the storm.
As she neared the open doors, she pressed her back to the wall just beside the frame, fingers splayed against it to steady her shaking hands.
One careful step at a time, her breath coming too fast, too loud in her own ears, she eased closer.
Keeping her body angled away from the gap, she tilted her head just enough to peek inside without giving herself away.
“You think you can come into my house and attack me?” Caelith’s voice boomed. “I am a Lord of the Vale!”
From her spot just outside the doorway, Emmaline saw Caelith’s hands carve through the air, fingers twisting like they were pulling invisible threads taut between them.
Lightning flared to life, veins of silver-white cracking between his palms, so bright it left streaks across her vision.
The air itself hissed, sending every hair on her arms lifting with the charge.
Ursula bolted left, boots skidding hard enough to leave streaks across the floor as the first bolt tore past her shoulder, close enough to singe the edge of her sleeve.
Catching her dead center, the second bolt slammed into her chest, sending her smashing into the side of the table before she crumpled to her knees.
Emmaline clamped her hand over her mouth, biting down hard enough to taste copper, anything to keep from screaming her friend’s name and giving herself away.
Caelith’s hands were already rising again, power snapping and sparking between them, the next bolt already forming. Before he could let it loose, though, a strand of pure white flame whipped across the room, searing into his face with a crackling hiss.
The blast snapped Caelith’s head sideways, sending him tripping back until his heel caught on an overturned dining chair.
He dropped hard to one knee, catching himself against the far end of the table.
Smoke rose in greasy ribbons from the wound carved down his cheek, the flesh split wide to the white of bone beneath.
Where the eye used to be, there was nothing left but a bubbling pit of seared meat, the edges blackened and curling like burnt parchment.
“You’re dead! You’re all dead!” Caelith’s scream tore through the air. Any semblance of the civilized mask he usually wore was gone. Clawing at the wound with one hand, the other clenched into a fist, power already flickering back to life in his palm.
“Don’t just lie there, imp.” Aeren snarled in his direction, shoulders squared, eyes still glowing with pulsing heat. “This isn’t over.”
Just inside the door, off to the left, Margo lay crumpled on the floor, one arm stretched out, fingers twitching faintly against the cold stone.
Emmaline’s pulse slammed hard enough to leave her dizzy, but there wasn’t time to process. Aeren was already at Ursula’s side, grabbing her wrist and hauling her up from the broken wreckage of the table, a jagged crack spiderwebbing out from where her body had hit.
“Come on, Shadow Queen.” Her voice was low. “Show me what you can do.”
“Gladly.” Ursula bared her teeth, a growl vibrating deep in her chest.
Then, the scent of ozone flooded the air, buzzing like the moment before thunder breaks. Light flared, harsh and unsteady, throwing Caelith’s ruined face into stark relief.
“I’m going to kill you all.” He staggered to his feet next, blood smearing his neck, and lifted both hands.
His grin pulled too wide, splitting the scorched skin at the corner of his mouth, fresh blood welling up and tracing a slow path down his chin.
“You’re all going to burn.” His gaze flicked to Margo’s prone form. “Starting with that uppity bitch. What’s one more dead noble lady?”
Emmaline’s breath locked in her throat as the first bolt sparked to life—thin at first, then swelling into a jagged spear of blinding silver-blue.
The air rippled outward from his hands, rattling the nearest glasses on the still-intact sideboard and sending loose strands of Emmaline’s hair lifting skyward.
“No!” Ursula’s voice ripped through the air as shadows poured from her chest, thick and fast, writhing like living chains as they shot toward Caelith.
Aeren was already moving, sprinting for Margo, her fingers clawing at the air like she could pull the noblewoman to safety through sheer will.
Not fast enough. Emmaline could see it. The lightning would hit before either of them got there. Margo had no inherent magic shielding her, no wards, nothing but thin silk between her heart and the killing strike.
She’s dead. The thought hit as Emmaline moved, instinct driving her faster than fear. She launched herself through the doorway, skidding across the polished marble, arms outstretched as she threw herself over Margo’s body.
The bolt hit, and every nerve fired at once—blinding, blistering, too much to hold inside her skin.
Her jaw slammed shut, teeth shattering under the pressure, shards stabbing her tongue, the taste of blood flooding thick and metallic down her throat.
Her spine bowed, heels scraping uselessly against the floor, limbs yanked in all directions by invisible strings she couldn’t cut.
The world went white, then black, as she slumped next to Margo, unable to move. Unable to cry. Unable to even think.
“Emmaline!”
She barely heard it through the ringing in her skull. The stink of scorched fabric and burned hair slammed into her senses, sour and metallic.
“Emmaline!”
Aeren hit the ground beside her, her hands flying over Emmaline’s arms, her face, shaking her roughly, fingers searching for signs of life. “Please, please don’t die.”