Does not work.

Laurence sat in darkness so complete that even he couldn’t see, and everything he was had focused on comforting Quentin, calming him, and trying to survive the destruction which surrounded them while he did what he had to, so it took him some moments to realize that Windsor was trying to reach him.

The astrolabe? he asked.

Yes. Does not work.

His shoulders sank a little. Okay. Hide. Tell me if anyone arrives.

Yes.

Laurence turned his head to find Quentin’s shoulder, and he pressed his lips to it. The jacket beneath his kiss was soft cotton, but the gesture was more for himself than for Quentin, and maybe if Quentin couldn’t feel it it wouldn’t upset him.

Quentin sighed so faintly that Laurence barely caught it. His voice had been ruined by the awful screaming he’d spent so long doing, and now any sound he made was small.

“We cannot sit here all day, I suppose,” Quentin breathed.

“Yeah.” Laurence rubbed his eyes with the back of a hand. “Can you give us some light?”

“Certainly.”

Laurence shut his eyes a second before fire blossomed into being a couple of feet away, then slowly re-opened them.

The room - such as it was - was a wreck. The candelabras were scattered around the floor. Candles had fallen free and been broken, littering the place with fragments of wax as well as the discarded carcasses of the candles themselves. But there were other things out among the detritus that he hadn’t seen before.

Some of them were wreathed in that black afterburn glow.

“Stay here,” he whispered.

Quentin squeezed his hand and nodded.

Laurence withdrew gently and eased to his feet. He picked his way through the mess. “Can I get a little more light, baby?”

The fire grew stronger.

“Perfect. Thank you.” He eyed the walls as he zig-zagged toward the back of the sanctum.

There, in the wall opposite the doors, was a patch of black.

Laurence moved toward it, ducking now and then to try and get some perspective. The shadows shifted with each lick of flame, and it took him some seconds to work out that the patch was a recess in the wall, only about a foot in each direction, like a cube had pressed into the surface and left an impression behind. As he reached it, he could make out twisted metal either side of the opening, and he ran his fingers over it cautiously, then turned to look around the room.

There had been doors covering the opening, and they’d been torn free, probably during Quentin’s meltdown. The more he searched, the more he could pick out evidence to support this. Some splintered wood lay among the candles.

He looked to Quentin, who remained huddled with his back to the door, ball of flame hovering unnervingly in the air by his right shoulder. It cast half his body into darkness.

“You okay, baby?” Laurence asked.

Quentin gave a slight nod. “For now,” he whispered.

“Okay.”

Goddess, he’d never wanted any of this to happen. He’d been ready to take secrets to his grave to save Quentin ever having to find out what had been done to him, and now there wasn’t any way to close that box. Quentin knew, he was going to have to find a way to live with it, and Laurence had to find a way to help him, because nobody should have to go through that alone. As much as Laurence pretended he hadn’t been abused himself, maybe it at least helped him to understand a fraction of how Quentin felt right now.

He’d promised Quentin nobody would ever hurt him again, but it wasn’t a promise he could keep. Freddy had broken it for him. He’d hurt Quentin, forced him to remember all this horrible shit, and Laurence couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him.

If he’d been better at magic.

If he’d known a damn thing about his own dad.

If he’d never taken any drugs.

Laurence swore at himself under his breath. He didn’t have time to beat himself up. He could do that later. Right now they needed to prepare for the duke’s return any way they could.

He slid his hand into the recess, but it was empty, so he turned back to the room to pick through it. He gathered up books, some torn and some remarkably intact, into a pile in his arms.

Then he saw it.

It looked almost like any other piece of trash in the room, but it was long and thin.

It had a handle.

Laurence grit his teeth and left the crop where it was. Seeing it would do Quentin no good.

He returned to Quentin and kneeled in front of him, then flicked through the books quickly. He didn’t speak the language, but he recognized enough to know Latin when he saw it. They were far older than Quentin’s dad could be, the paper yellowed and warped with age. That meant they weren’t created by Quentin’s dad, but maybe all magic from warlocks looked like this. Unnatural and sickening, a violation of the universe.

Would Quentin’s be the same, should he ever bring himself to cast a spell?

Laurence frowned. It wasn’t a pleasant idea.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I think this is all stuff to do with… what was done,” he said with care. “It could be some family history stuff, too. I can’t read it. It’s Latin.”

Quentin glanced away.

“Yeah,” Laurence agreed with a grimace. “I don’t think you wanna read it either. I’m… kinda hesitant to suggest we destroy them without knowing what they are, but…” he drifted to a halt, not sure what to say.

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes a while. When he opened them again, he looked up to Laurence. “I won’t learn any of it,” he wheezed. “I refuse. If that means we lose power handed down over the centuries, so be it. I would rather see our lineage end than pay the price for its continuance.” He shook his head, his expression blank. “No child deserves to inherit this.”

Laurence offered a small smile and a nod. “I’m so proud of you, baby. Do you want to do it, or do you want me to?”

“It’s my responsibility,” Quentin said quietly. His voice scratched, but sounded like it was beginning to recover.

Laurence sat back out of the way, and Quentin immolated the pile of books. He did it without pause or fanfare, and he used his telekinesis to fan the books open so that their pages could catch fire faster.

They popped and crackled in the heat. Wisps of magic literally went up in smoke, entwining with it and then dissipating a few feet above their heads.

Laurence puffed out his cheeks and ran fingertips through his beard as he watched the fire. Despite knowing that Quentin wouldn’t let it grow out of control or hurt him, it was uncomfortable to sit so close to it, but he didn’t want to make any sudden movements so he stayed right where he was.

“You know,” he said quietly. “You did something earlier.” He gestured to himself. “With me.”

Quentin turned to face him. The firelight danced in his eyes.

“I’ve always felt this pull from you. A physical one. I mean…” He smiled briefly. “More than the vision I had of you all those years ago, more than how beautiful you are, more than how I can’t bear not being near you. There’s, like, this…” He pushed a hand through his curls. “This force inside you, and it pulls on me. Most of the time it’s faint, I can almost forget it’s there. But when Mia stopped your heart on the Theophrastus it cut out altogether. And it seems to get stronger whenever you’re hurt. Earlier it was… immense. Like you were sucking the life right out of me.”

Quentin blinked and looked to the fire. “I think I was,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m like a damn fountain. Every time I grow plants fast I take my own life and push it into them, but it regenerates so fast I barely notice it’s gone. I’m already better.” He pressed his lips together as he tried to figure out what he wanted to say. “You felt better after you did it, right? I mean, it seemed to give you some kinda strength, like it helped you heal a bit.”

“It gave me focus,” Quentin admitted. “I was… drifting. I can’t adequately describe it. I wasn’t able to tell whether any of this was real or… a memory. Many memories, perhaps. I haven’t eaten in-” he waved a hand vaguely, and his fingertips passed harmlessly through the flame which still hovered by his shoulder. “I remember that we had breakfast before you left for work.”

Laurence stood so that he could walk around the burning books and settle by Quentin’s side. Freddy hadn’t fed him either, but at least he’d had good sustenance in Avalon, and like when Herne had shared rabbit with him, Emma and Morgan’s meals had somehow kept his body nourished, as well as his mind. Now didn’t seem like the time to chide Quentin for failing to take care of himself, though. The man already felt awful, and Laurence didn’t want him to think he wasn’t in a safe space when Laurence was around.

“We did,” he agreed gently as he took Quentin’s hand.

“But then I destroyed a hotel room. I got thrown out in the middle of the night and it was cold, so I kept myself warm. And when Rufus found a spell to send Windsor, he could only use destinations he himself had strong emotional connections to, and the nearest available was Paris. I had to go fetch him from there.”

“You went to Paris?” Laurence smiled at him. “That’s a hell of a way to go, baby.”

“It was the only way,” Quentin murmured. “Windsor could find you, whereas I could not. But it was cold there, too, and I… I haven’t slept a great deal, and when I create heat I take it out of myself.”

Laurence blinked at the jumble of information. It was a bit chaotic, but if Quentin hadn’t slept in days and he’d been expending all his energy just to keep warm, Laurence could understand how everything was getting muddled in his head. The poor guy was running on empty, and if he hadn’t had a couple of days in Avalon, Laurence would be too.

“That kinda sounds like how I control plants,” Laurence said. “It comes out of me. Except I replenish really fast.” He hesitated, then frowned faintly.

If this was how Quentin healed so quickly, did it mean he was always fighting a background level of exhaustion or illness for Laurence to constantly feel that pull on his own energy? Did Quentin literally feed off all the life around himself to keep going on a daily basis? Could it be how he survived his own alcoholism with negligible apparent ill effects?

Would it diminish if Quentin were to eat properly?

“Do you feel better now?” he asked. “I mean, physically?”

Quentin inclined his head. “Yes.”

“Okay. Then if you need to do it again, do it, okay?” He met Quentin’s eyes. “We’re gonna need any edge we can get against your dad.”

Quentin hesitated, then his eyebrows lifted. “Oh.” He fumbled through his pockets and withdrew his cellphone. “Rufus sent me a spell. It was to protect you from Frederick’s telepathy.”

Laurence looked to the phone as Quentin brought up images. Rufus had taken photos of pages and sent them to Quentin, and as Quentin handed his phone over, Laurence zoomed in to read them.

“You were gonna do this?” He glanced up at Quentin. “For me?”

Quentin nodded.

Laurence bit his lip. Pride swelled in his chest. That Quentin was willing to make himself use magic if it would protect Laurence was almost overwhelming, and he rubbed his eyes as he handed the phone back. “I love you. I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far.”

Quentin’s gaze flit toward the fire, then he exhaled weakly in a brief laugh. “One step forward, two steps back,” he wheezed.

“Shh, you-”

People, Windsor cut in.

Laurence broke off and swallowed tightly. He’d hoped for more time, but it looked like they weren’t going to get it. “I think your dad’s back,” he said.

Quentin sprang to his feet and hurried away from the door, as though backing to the far end of the room could save him somehow.

Laurence dove for the candelabra Quentin had turned into a rudimentary spear and melted quickly into the shadows. If Quentin remained directly opposite the doors he would be the first thing the duke saw, and it might distract him enough for Laurence to get a shot. The tip of the candelabra wasn’t sharp, but if he could get enough force behind the attack it should be enough to do some serious injury.

It wasn’t ideal, but it was their best chance.

Hell, it would be their only chance.