Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
There is guilt and there is fault, and neither is welcome here.
CELINE
The estate is the same as the day I left, except emptier.
Tall columns and thick, carved banisters. Polished, gleaming marble. Nothing is out of place, but the itch in my back is all-consuming.
I never wanted to return here, but for him I would do it a thousand times over.
We watch from a distance as my father strides through the gates. His wings are hidden, and his pace is slow. I stroke the cool metal of the pistol’s grip, but we’re too far away for me to shoot with any accuracy.
My hatred for him has never been stronger.
I pray for his downfall with the same fervor I used to pray for my freedom.
The estate is undeniably lovely. What would it have been like to grow up here with someone else as my father?
Would I have run through the courtyard, giggling, flush with the joy of being loved?
There’s a reality where my strange wings would have been celebrated, right?
Recognized not as a curse, but as a gift from the gods.
When I try to imagine S’lach in that role, the vision drifts away. My imagination isn’t good enough to bring that fantasy to life, even in my head.
He steps onto the transportation pathway, and it hums, whisking him away to his next victim. I’m moving before the purr fades, marching toward the gates at top speed.
Stealth is a good idea, but I’m past that.
I reach the gates and stop. They’re locked in the middle with a delicate weave of braided metal.
Vines that have more in common with chains.
While the fence appears to be ten feet tall, that’s simply a design choice.
The magic keeping them locked extends in a dome around the entire property, preventing angels from flying over the barricade.
“Open the gate,” I call out in the common tongue.
A guard appears, startled and scowling. I don’t recognize him, but when he looks at me, he does a double take—all color leeching from his face as he executes a jerky bow.
I curl my fingers around the bars of the gate. The dark metal heats to glowing, molten gold in my furious grip. Fueled by my magic, the gates are as aware of my heritage as the petrified guardian in front of me.
Yet, I’m still locked out. That’s about to change.
Stretching my wings wide, I lean into my fury, smiling as they catch fire. The flames crackle, growing until they stretch a foot past my wingtips on either side.
The guardian stumbles backward and nearly falls. Another one jogs to his side. And my patience for their indecision officially runs out. The gates sense it. The large, vine-shaped padlock melts onto the courtyard, liquid metal running through the grooves between the stones.
I eye the destruction with satisfaction and walk slowly toward the guards as the gates swing open and welcome me home. “Take me to my betrothed. Now.”
Heavy footsteps echo behind me, and Lyklan and Riven slide into place on either side of me, keeping far enough away from my wings to avoid getting burned.
“I can take you,” Lyklan says.
The first guard steps forward, hands shaking. Lyklan hisses at him, letting loose a string of sharp varek words. I don’t understand much, but his tone is clear. Move or I’ll move you.
Terrified, the first guard whispers a response, and Lyklan sighs.
“I told them to get out while they still could, but he says your father bound them here in an illegal magical contract. They can’t tell anyone because of his word, and they’re afraid if they let you take Malach, he’ll kill them when he returns. ”
I frown. “How many are trapped?” I ask in the common tongue, and the answer astounds me. Fifty. Fifty angels bound to this property, unable to leave or complain, and forced to serve at my father’s whim.
“I will protect you.” I activate my truth runes, so they see the promise on my skin.
Riven shifts his weight, and I stiffen under the heat of his stare.
This wasn’t our plan, but what am I supposed to do?
If I can find the contracts, maybe I can use estate magic to sever them.
Sentencing fifty people to death isn’t an option.
I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I became as callous and cruel as the man who raised me.
Spinning to face the open gates, I close them and squeeze my eyes shut.
Keep him out. This is my birthright. My home. He’s tarnished it long enough.
The metal heats again, the padlock reforming as a pleasant current of warmth runs from the bottoms of my palms to my fingertips. Only when the gate glows golden again do I let go.
I don’t know how long it will hold. I don’t even have a good guess. But the estate wants me to succeed; I can sense that. There’s a near-sentience to the way the magic dances along my skin, almost like the magic is welcoming me home.
Eyes burning with tears I refuse to let fall, I spin to face the guards.
They’re bowing. Shit. My cheeks heat. Their rigid sign of respect makes me uncomfortable. I’ve been gone too long and seen too much to return to the customs I grew up with. “Please don’t,” I beg. “Take me to Malach.”
They jump into action, and I follow them, ignoring everything but the path directly in front of me. There’s no point looking right or left. I’m not here to stay, but my anger is. The flames burn bright, a visceral reminder that I should avoid leaning on anything.
I step through the front door, and memories hit me harder than a punch to the face. Cartilage giving way, blood spurting from both nostrils, swelling eyes, ruptured capillaries—the whole nine yards. A haymaker would hurt less.
I’m haunted by this house, by everything it bore witness to over the years. I see her face everywhere—phantom pain shaped as the first person I failed to protect.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I see it. Chest heaving, skin crawling, I grind to a halt. He hung her painting inside the door. My flames light her face with a warm, orange glow. The fake smile is frozen on her lips—the one that never reached her eyes.
How dare he trap her here for eternity? Wasn’t killing her enough? My fingers spasm as I imagine them around his neck.
It’s one lie too many.
A primal sound escapes me, and I rip the painting off the wall, dropping it like it burned me, even though I’m the one on fire.
My next breath catches in a hiccup. I stumble backward. Everyone stares at me. The guards, Lyklan, Riven . . . they watch me like I’m a wild animal backed into a corner.
Calm down. Wall it off.
Bile bubbles up in my throat.
I swallow it, eyes fluttering shut as I stuff the memories back into the vault and shove against the mental door with all my might. This can’t destroy me. I didn’t let it then, and I won’t let it now.
I’m here for Malach. That’s all.
It’s too late for her. It always was, wasn’t it?
The vault locks with a click, and I roll my shoulders back. “My apologies,” I say in the common tongue, pleased when my voice comes out normally. “Let’s keep going.”
No one argues, and I follow them, my face twisting as Lyklan leads me downstairs.
This part of the house used to be for storage, but my father has clearly made changes. The walls are painted stark white, and the lights are blinding. I wince. There’s evil here—something sinister. My wings morph into flaming blades.
The guardians stop in front of a closed door, and my right wing twitches involuntarily, leaving a deep, singed gouge in the white wall. The screech is terrible, but I barely hear it. I’m too focused on the closed door.
“I don’t have access,” the first guardian admits, eyeing me nervously.
Lyklan steps forward to try the handle, but I’m done waiting.
Lifting my knee to my chest, I drive my foot into the door with every drop of pent-up rage in my body.
It splinters, golden magic erupting from the place where my foot made contact.
What the fuck? I’ve never added anything extra to my strength before.
Was that me by myself, or is the house trying to help me?
It doesn’t matter, because I can see inside now.
My stomach rolls. It’s worse than I feared.
Shackled to a hook in the ceiling, Malach hangs, with his toes barely grazing the floor.
There’s blood everywhere, splatter covering every inch of the white room.
And that’s not the worst part. Drawn by terror and dread, my gaze lands on the floor .
. . where Malach’s wings lie crumpled and broken in a pool of congealed blood.
My stomach rebels, and I gag—holding in the contents of my stomach out of sheer necessity. Lyklan isn’t as lucky. He bends at the waist and vomits, the sound echoing around the enclosed space.
I ignore him. My eyes are already glued to my worst nightmare.
Malach. My Malach. Mutilated and left for dead.
My heart stops, seizing with indecision. It’s not sure if it wants to go on without him, and I can’t blame it. But we’ve got to, because his still beats.
I lock onto the faint, irregular thumps, and stumble forward. Choking his name, I search for a place to touch him that won’t cause him more pain and come up empty. There’s no part of Malach that isn’t covered in wounds.
Riven reaches for him, and I snarl. “No one touches him but me.” With gritted teeth, I wrap my arms around his hips and lift, unhooking the shackles around his wrists from the silver hook embedded in the ceiling.
He groans but doesn’t wake. I’m grateful for that.
Hoisting Malach over my shoulders, I keep him facedown so the wounds on his back won’t rub against me. It’s the best I can do for him right now.
I glance at Lyklan. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and there’s a green pallor to his skin. “Take us to the gateway,” I say. He doesn’t react. He’s too busy staring at Malach’s severed wings. “Snap out of it, Lyklan. He’s still alive, and you’re wasting time.”
This time, he hears me. Tearing his eyes away from the wings, he blinks rapidly like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream. “S’lach keeps a personal portal in his study,” he says. “It’s the fastest way.”
I nod and call to Riven. “Get his wings.” My voice cracks. “We can’t leave them here.”
Riven’s face flickers, but he bends without a word, gathering Malach’s wings with agonizing gentleness. My eyes burn. I refuse to let tears fall.
As I climb the stairs, I make myself a promise: S’lach will die for this. My life won’t know peace until his ends, and it’s a truth I’ve avoided for far too long.
Our walk through the house is a blur. All I can think about is ending Malach’s pain.
Lyklan forces the study door open and retrieves a small orb from my father’s drawer.
“Send us back to Earth,” I say. “Help is waiting there.”
Fiddling with the device, Lyklan nods, then tosses a pained look at Malach from the corner of his eye. The urge to order him to focus on the task at hand is hard to ignore, but I bite my tongue. Arguing will only slow him down further.
The orb hums and splits. Light shoots from the crack, forming a swirling vortex of light. Finally. Malach’s pulse is thready, his skin clammy and feverish. My gut tells me we’re running out of time.
I step toward the portal.
Lyklan twists, removing it from my path, and I stiffen. “How dare you! He’s dying!” I’m shaking now, a horrible combination of terror and fury swirling in my gut.
“I’m not trying to stop you.” He shoots a wary look at Riven. “I only wanted to remind you of what will happen if you abandon the staff—”
“I’m not abandoning anyone,” I snap. “I’ll be back before S’lach returns. He will pay for this, Lyklan. I vowed on my magic to help them, and I will.”
His grip on the orb tightens. “What are you going to do?”
I sneer at the white walls, void of life and steeped in cruelty, then meet his wide eyes. “I’m going to take my fucking house back. He wanted a war. He’s going to get one.”
Lyklan gulps and nods, returning the portal to its original position.
I step into the light with a stone-faced Riven at my side.