Chapter 22
Dreven
Iput the kettle on because apparently that’s what you do when the world is ending, and the woman you would murder continents for is in the shower pretending hot water can scrub off fate.
The cupboards have opinions about being opened by me. I ignore them and grab a bag of pasta and a jar of sauce.
“Eight minutes?” Dastian asks, already prowling. “I give her five before she remembers she’s starving and starts gnawing the door.”
“And we will have dinner ready.”
He nods. He is grimmer than I’ve ever seen him. It’s refreshing. His chipper, sarcastic self is getting on my nerves.
Voren returns from his circuit, a blade of winter sliding back into a sheath. “No movement on the lanes. The dead are still.” A beat. “For now.”
“Coiled,” I agree, laying wards so fine a Witch of Order would need spectacles. The cottage hums, then goes still. We need still. For a little while, so Nyssa can regroup. She needs a few hours where things aren’t trying to kill her.
Dastian prowls. Voren prowls quieter. I make pasta because the world has descended to its most basic setting: impending apocalypse with a side of perfectly cooked carbs.
The kettle clicks off. I pour. The tea steams like a promise I intend to keep.
The shower turns off. I check the clock. Seven minutes, forty-two seconds. Good girl.
Moments later, she walks in wearing her usual uniform of a black tee and leggings. Damp hair, clean skin, eyes like an ember someone tried and failed to stamp out.
“Tea?” I ask.
“Please,” she says, like manners might save us.
She takes the mug like a lifeline, takes a sip, and sits down. “Pasta? Nice. I could do with something proper.”
“It will be ready soon,” I promise, and just to speed things up, I wiggle my fingers over the pot, and it’s cooked.
I drain it, add the sauce and return it to the hob to heat up.
Dastian gets bowls. Voren stares out of the window.
I dish up and slide a bowl in front of her.
She twirls pasta like it’s a weapon and devours the first mouthful with a noise that hits me in unholy places.
“Okay?” I ask.
“Better than okay.” She points her fork at me. “Shadow-microwave. Noted.”
“It’s called efficiency.” I sit opposite and watch her colour come back. The ember under her skin is quieter. The house stays still. I’ll take the win.
She sips tea and meets my eyes over the rim. “Can you tell me when this stops feeling like a possession and starts feeling like a choice?”
“When you choose,” I say. “Start small. Fold your light. Set a rule. Keep breathing while you do it.”
She glares, but she does it. The ember tucks tighter, her pulse steadies under the noise. The cottage relaxes another inch.
I nod and leave her to eat in peace.
“Does anyone else think the Devourer is closer than we think?” she asks suddenly. “Like maybe it isn’t this ‘thing’ but an actual creature watching us chase our tails?”
“Yes,” I say, because lying to her is a luxury we can’t afford. “That is exactly what I think. It has learned to take on a form.”
“Learned?”
“Either that or possession. Doesn’t matter which; it is no longer an unseen threat. It is watching. Taunting. Learning your habits. Learning how quickly you are adapting to your new role. None of this is good. We need to get back to the Pantheon realm and actually try to make progress this time.”
“Wow, okay. Lay it all out before I’ve finished my food, why don’t you?”
“You started it, I ended it.”
She goes still, and I decide I’m done letting the night set our schedule.
“We go back,” I say, before she can bait me for ruining her appetite again. “Not to wander. To cut.”
She eyes me over her mug. “Cut what?”
“The heart,” I answer. “The pearl down the throat of that corridor. We go to it, and we lie around it until the lie is a cage.”
Dastian perks up. “We’re building a box?”
“A deadlock,” I correct. “Radiant to sear. Wraith to bind. Shadow to decide what exists inside. You will choose the rules. It won’t enjoy that.”
Nyssa twirls pasta like she wants to throttle fate with it. “And I’m the bait.”
I don’t lie. “Yes.”
She exhales through her nose. “Fine. But I need to sleep first. I’m no good to anyone right now.”
Voren sets a coil of frost on the windowsill and listens to the dark. “It’s coiling tighter,” he murmurs. “You can have a few hours, but nothing more.”
Nyssa drains her tea, scrapes the last pasta with unapologetic focus, and stands. “I’d better get to bed then.”
I expect Dastian to make a crude comment.
He doesn’t. As much as I appreciate the lack of sarcasm and frivolity, it’s unnerving.
“Go,” I say. “We will stand watch.”
She disappears with a nod, and I coil wards through the wood and brick until the cottage learns it belongs to me, not the night. Shadow threads every join, every keyhole, the kettle, the toaster. If the Devourer sticks a tongue against the air, it’ll taste dust and boredom, not a queen.
Dastian prowls holes in the rug in the living room. Voren remains still by the window. The house breathes in our rhythm. Outside, the village sleeps.
“Box,” Dastian says softly, pausing his pacing. “Deadlock. I can lace chaos cool or hot. You want sizzle or slow cook?”
“Slow. If we flash, it feeds.”
He nods, eyes dull, for once not performing for anyone. “I can do cruel patience.”
Voren joins us. “I will bind the edges. Old rites. It will hold if we keep her rules simple.”
“Simple is not her gift,” I mutter.
“No, but we make it simple. Who do we think it is?” Dastian’s question is one I’m pondering myself.
“Tabitha,” I state.
“Agreed,” he says. “Although she is still the same pain in our arses as she always has been, something just isn’t… right.”
“She will find Cormac and Finnian and either kill them or use them to get to Nyssa.”
Dastian runs a hand through his hair, making it worse. “Then we beat her to the punch. We take the board away.”
“After she sleeps,” Voren says, not looking away from the glass. Frost sketches itself thin as breath and vanishes. “Two hours.”
“Three,” I decide, because I’m indulgent where she’s concerned and because the Devourer will prefer it if she is frayed. I’d rather present it a blade, not a broken edge.
They nod. We don’t argue about it.
I move down the hall. Her bedroom is dark except for the line of street light bleeding past the curtains. She’s a small shape under the duvet, hair damp, blade on the bedside. She snores lightly and turns over. I don’t disturb her. The deeper she sleeps, the more rested she will be.