16
burn or flee
Morning dawned with glum, gray skies, much like the mood Sera had woken to. She lay deathly still, thoughts of the previous night playing above her like smoke. Isobel and Ophelia. The Barghest. Barrington.
She shut her eyes tight, willing the spell chamber to appear once more. She would pull, shake, claw at the gates—cry and beg them to release the memories they held hostage. Regardless of how the hot metal scalded her hands. Of how it branded her palms. With her memories, she would no longer need to be an inspector. She would not need him anymore, and maybe, just maybe, the hellish ache in her chest would leave her be.
But there was nothing to be seen save the black of her closed lids.
Sobs came hard and fast on the heels of her thoughts. She rolled to her side, curled into herself, the emptiness and disappointment more painful than she could bear. It was over and, although Barrington said he would fix the scene, Sera knew there was no fixing them. No magic or pain or regret in the world could reverse the hands of time, could take her back to the tunnel and force her mind to overrule her heart and heed Barrington’s orders to leave him.
Tears fragmented her room into a crackled image as a subsequent cry emptied her of air. It was too late to change anything now. She had lost her dream. She had lost him. Gone were their evenings of practice and magic, of pleasant conversation where for hours she belonged, valued and unafraid. Gone was the man who’d gifted her those mere moments of beautiful normalcy in the midst of torture, murder, and death. Who had somehow integrated himself into her every day, burrowed beneath the walls she’d erected in her heart, built of the pain Noah left in his wake. Who’d swept into her life like a breeze but whose departure left her as the shattered ruins of a hurricane.
Strands of hair clung to her tear-dampened face. She brushed them away and, desperate, pressed her cold hands down on her face, her arms, her shoulders, if only to feel a touch of the safety and warmth she felt in Barrington’s company and arms. If only to dispel a bit of the terrible, hollowing solitude.
Feeling nothing but cold skin, she let her hands slip away. What was the point? She had ruined things with Barrington. Once their magic was discovered at the scene, they would be blamed for the murders and be imprisoned, and she would never see him again.
She swallowed tightly and watched the embers die in the fireplace. There was no need to relight the firebox. Not even the fires of hell could warm the stark chill that covered her bones and stabbed at her heart.
…
Later that day, the sky was still a dismal painting, dark gray clouds on a light gray backdrop. The wind shifted, and with it, the temperatures plunged. Sera sat on a stone bench in the courtyard, curled into her cloak. Her body begged her to go inside, and she was ready to do so, but she gazed at her friend sketching out the details of her Wishing Tree and didn’t dare. All that had kept Mary from tears over her mother’s latest letter had been the tree she was to decorate for the Solstice Dance, and the wishes that were to be hitched upon it. Though she didn’t have the energy to play the docile helper, there was no way she could have turned Mary down when she asked Sera to pretend to assist her in sorting out fabrics and materials, so she wouldn’t be so alone in her heartache.
Pity dampened Sera’s heart. If there was one woe that always seemed to rival her own, it was Mary’s once a letter arrived from her mother. After this latest epistle of how Mary was a disappointment to the family, Sera wondered if the letter was not some sort of spell, for how else could Mrs. Tenant succeed so well at demolishing a person’s entire spirit with the use of simple words?
“Maybe the headmistress will take notice and Mama will hear of my work.” Mary thrust down a slip of lace that she considered for the base of the tree. “Heaven knows nothing else I do seems to please her.”
“I’m sure she will. Mrs. Southerly wouldn’t have assigned this project to you if she didn’t think you were more capable than the rest.” Sera slid from her stone bench and knelt beside her friend, pretending to sort through strips of lace. “Don’t pay mind to your mother. She forgets what it is like to be our age.”
Mary scoffed. “No, no. That’s the problem. She remembers perfectly. You’ve seen her. They say beauty lessens with age, so can you imagine what she was like in her youth. All grace and beauty with suitors to spare. Not to mention I also have my sister’s legacy to contend with. Here I am choosing lace for my tree when my sister, at this age, was choosing lace for her veil.” She rolled watery eyes and rubbed away her tears before they fell. “I will be a spinster, Sera. Maybe it wouldn’t be so depressing if I simply accepted it.”
Sera gave her a small smile. “Then, as always, we’ll stay together and be a pair. We will be two spinsters. We’ll have a nice little cottage—”
Mary sniffled. “And lots of cats.”
Sera wrinkled her nose. “I was hoping perhaps a bird, or a puppy. You know I’m not too fond of cats.”
Mary deflated, her skin mottled. “Of course you’re not. See, we’re already having marital disagreements and we’re not yet married—or unmarried, or whatever it is we’ll be.”
In spite of the solemnness between them, the girls laughed freely for a few moments. The mirth died, and Mary pressed a gloved hand to Sera’s face. Sera startled, and she flicked her gaze all around, but thankfully they were alone and shielded by hedges.
“Promise me you’ll become an inspector,” Mary said, her voice jagged. She lowered her hand and her eyes. “Nothing will make my heart happier than to see an Invocation ring on your finger, for you to become a real witch.”
Mary lifted reddened eyes, and Sera’s brow knitted at the look there, one she couldn’t quite decipher. Was it worry? Fear? Regret?
“Regardless of what happens,” she said, “say you’ll become an inspector for the both of us.”
It was now Sera’s eyes that watered as she clasped her friend’s hand tighter. Oh, her sweet, sweet Mary. If she only knew how the previous night she had dashed all her chances at a referral and perhaps even at freedom.
Still, she sucked in a breath and nodded. “I’ll do it. For us.”
Mary smiled, and her eyes shone again with their old gleam. She patted Sera’s hand. “Good. Now, enough of my woes. If there’s something I shall do right, it’s this blasted tree. I was thinking of having a small barrel full of leaf cutouts on which everyone can write their wishes and then bind them to the tree. What do you think?”
“I think it will look marvelous,” Timothy said, coming from around the hedge. “It’s a very clever idea, Miss Tenant. You should be proud. It’ll make a beautiful addition to our dance.” He stopped and tipped his hat to Mary and then Sera. Upon meeting Sera’s eyes, he paused, an eternal second that wound about her stomach.
He turned to the tree and surveyed the strips of fabric Mary had pinned onto the trunk during her contemplations. “A fitting addition considering it’s our last year here. Many of us have unfulfilled wishes that, if possible, we would trade many other wishes to attain.”
The sensation of him watching her in his peripheral vision pressed on Sera’s skin and set her cheeks aflame. She cleared her throat and turned her eyes down to the grass as Mary stepped forward.
“Y-yes, well, that was m-my intention,” Mary said, smoothing down her dress. “We all hold secret wishes in our hearts. Now anyone who yearns for anything can set their wish upon a paper leaf and bind it to the tree with their magic. Hopefully they will find some freedom at not keeping this secret stifled inside.”
“A grand idea.” He stared at the skeletal branches as if he could already see the Wishing Tree in all its glory. “I’ll be the first to set my wish upon it, then.”
“Oh surely you mustn’t,” Mary said with a shy giggle.
“And why not?” Timothy turned his attentions to her, his eyes hard and frame bristled with offense.
Mary startled and paled. “Oh, well, a-a man such as yourself…I…” Cheeks red, she lowered her eyes.
“What Mary means,” Sera said against her best plan to remain out of the conversation and his attention, “is that this tree is for those of us unable to voice our feelings out of propriety or fear. This tree will hold wishes for those of us who are bound by status or gender or fate of birthright. For those of us unable to speak what’s in our hearts, who are not brave and courageous. People unlike you.”
He was quiet a moment, his gaze softened, and when he spoke next, his voice was much softer, too. “But you’re wrong, Miss Dovetail. Painfully so. Some of us have been brave and courageous, and yet we’ve failed. We’re still burdened by our dreams, waiting for just one glance, or one word that will give us our second chance, and in turn, our heart’s desires.”
The passion of his words hung heavy around them and obscured Mary, the trees, the school, the world. All that remained were Timothy’s eyes taking in every ounce of hers, searching for this one look, for his second chance.
In this quiet, Mary blinked, equal parts wonder and pain in her eyes. If she had any doubt his affections belonged to another before, Sera feared she knew it now, and her own heart ached. How could she have thought to hurt her friend by considering Timothy, even if it was out of necessity or mere curiosity?
She steeled her spine. “I think you should be first to pin your wish on the tree and, afterward, move on.”
Timothy blinked, and Sera’s heart stuttered at the look there. The same pain as that in Mary’s gaze.
“Very well,” he said, his voice a low whisper.
“Delacort.” Whittaker came up and slapped him on the chest with a folded newspaper. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Timothy snatched the paper from his hands. “What do you want?” he asked, clearly perturbed.
Whittaker answered, but Sera heard none of it, her eyes caught on the newspaper. Under the headline Torture: Ghastly Murder was an impression of a corpse—Isobel Weathers.
“Mr. Delacort,” Sera called after him as he walked away. Timothy turned back, a bright gleam of hope in his eyes.
She cleared her throat. “I wanted to know if you were done with the newspaper. I’d like to read it if you’re going to throw it away.”
Disappointment washed over his features. He sighed and held out the newspaper for her taking. The paper gone from his hands, he walked away without another word.
“Did you know someone killed a witch, Dovetail?” Whittaker said, grinning. “They tortured her and then dumped her in an alley behind some brothel. A pity if that were to happen to you, wouldn’t it?” His smug smile widened.
She stepped closer. “Is that a threat?” Sera looked over his shoulder. “I’m sure Professor Barrington might not appreciate that.”
At the mention of Barrington’s name, Whittaker’s smile withered, and he shifted back, surveying the field. “It was a joke, Dovetail. You can take a joke, can’t you?” He chuckled nervously and hurried after Timothy.
Sera shook her head. The boy was a fool. She lowered to the ground and unfolded the paper.
Mary sat down beside her and hefted a sigh. “It was true, then. Another did break his heart.”
“What?” Sera asked absently, her heart in her ears as she read.
The body of Miss Isobel Weathers was discovered about 4:00 a.m. on Margot Street, in the back alley of Rosetta’s…
Cold rushed down her spine. Found behind Rosetta’s?
“Remember what Susan said, that he was interested in someone, but she turned him down?” Mary said.
Sera nodded.
A customer who wishes to remain unnamed made the discovery while exiting the establishment. No evidence was found on the scene.
She cupped her mouth. He had done it. Boorish and cold as he was, Barrington had fixed it. He had moved the body and covered up her blunder. A broken laugh escaped her.
“I know. It’s unbelievable someone would break his heart,” Mary said erroneously and leaned in to her. “Oh, Sera, why in the world are you reading about murder?”
“I’m not,” she lied. Her eyes instantly caught on the photo next to the article, one of Aetherium Chancellor York and his wife at the doorway to an orphanage. Mrs. York wore a royal-blue dress that complemented her brown skin, standing regal beside the chancellor. “I was admiring the chancellor and his wife. It’s good to see he’s doing better enough to walk. Last I read, he was close to death, and his healers could do nothing about it.”
“Yes, I heard.” Mary inched closer to read the article. “But the chancellor’s illness aside, can you imagine what it’s like to be Mrs. York? This”—she plucked at the picture—“is what waits for the girl Timothy chooses. This is what I want.” She scoffed. “Who would be so foolish to turn down Timothy Delacort?”
Sera glanced back to Isobel Weathers’s picture and smiled, wishing she could say, “The same girl foolish enough to doubt her professor.”
…
That night, Sera marveled she had made it to Professor Barrington’s home and not an alley somewhere, given how quickly she had written out the transfer spell from memory. No doubt the writing was perhaps as bad as Barrington’s. But she rushed forward, not caring one bit. She was here and, staring up at the painting of the twin boys, she smiled. Grim as Barrington was, she could’ve hugged him! Not that she would, no, but she could.
Newspaper in hand, she spun in place and relished how wrong she had been the last time she’d stood there. Her smile widened. Her previous visit wasn’t to be the last time she was in Barrington’s home. And if he didn’t dismiss her, she would be sure to not risk it again. She would apologize and thank him, and after, she would mind her powers, listen to direction, and not test fate again.
Long minutes passed. Unable to wait for him any longer, she strode to the door and yanked it open. She marched past his empty workroom but paused at seeing Rosie sorting through a crate of vials.
“Good evening, Rosie,” Sera said.
Rosie lifted her head, and her lips spread in a smile. “Miss Dovetail! It’s always such a delight to see you.”
“You as well. Is the professor in?”
“Yes, but he’s downstairs with Mr. Rowe at the moment. I will tell him you’re here—”
“No, no. I can wait.” She moved closer to the table. The crate was filled with vials of various herbs and crystals. “May I help you with anything?”
Rosie sighed and picked up a handful of vials. “Just sorting these into the pantry. The order finally came in. You two have been going through supplies so quickly, but I’m glad of it. It means you’re learning, and now with the pantry replenished, you can resume your lessons.”
Sera reached for the vials. “Do you mind if I put them away, to better familiarize myself with the rest of the supplies?”
Rosie agreed and, emptying the crate, she set the rest of the materials on the table and left to discard it. Sera put down the newspaper and sorted out the vials, then began putting them away in the pantry. Once inside the storeroom, she closed the door slightly, to reach the rack of obsidian vials on the counter behind it, when—
“It will take me some time to produce that amount, but they’ll have the delivery in a matter of weeks,” Barrington was saying.
“As long as you keep up your end of the bargain, Rosetta’s is at your disposal,” Rowe replied, “though you’ll have to be careful being seen there from now on. You know, with your history and all…”
Sera hissed a curse. Couldn’t they have gone into his office? She grabbed the knob to open the door and walk out, but Barrington walked to the black door, while Rowe sat at the worktable and crossed his feet on the surface, a drink in hand. Curiosity piqued, Sera inched back into the dark pantry and prayed Rosie didn’t return soon.
“It’s a good thing Rosetta’s is my least favorite of their establishments,” Barrington said. He pressed the tip of his wand to the handle and various clicks resounded, more than Sera could count. He walked inside, and she struggled to see into the dark room from her hiding spot. In the light filtering in, she noted another worktable in the middle, upon which were a mess of glass funnels, beakers, and retorts. If the numerous spells she had seen written all over the beams of his house weren’t strange enough, now there was an abundance of locks and secret experiments.
Before she could see or think any more, he walked out of the room and closed the door. He set a black Gladstone bag on the table before Rowe. A quiet tinkling of glass upon glass resounded from inside. “This should do for a month. By then, the next batch will be ready, and we’ll go back to our normal order. Once every two months, as is our agreement.”
“Perfect.” Rowe downed his drink and stood. Barrington shuffled papers aside, searching for something. “I’m sure you’ve dismissed Miss Dovetail after all this trouble?”
Sera bristled. Barrington froze over his papers. “Miss Dovetail remains employed by me should she still want the position.”
Rowe’s brows lifted. “You’re serious?”
Finding the sheet he sought, Barrington straightened. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“She saved our lives, yes, but she nearly ruined you, Nik.” Rowe grabbed the pen the professor handed him. “If the Aetherium ever found out you were in that tunnel…”
Barrington lowered the sheet and slid it across the table slowly. “They won’t.”
“Of course not, but she’s a liability. I trust your judgment, but I must confess her appearance was rather surprising. You’re always alone, have been for years. Suddenly there’s an assistant—a she. How much do you know about her, about her abilities?” He signed the form before him in two quick strokes. “You wouldn’t be the first man to be fooled by a pretty face.”
“I’m wise in the company I keep,” Barrington said, each word mounted with offense. “And her beauty is of little importance.”
A flush of warmth crept into Sera’s cheeks. Barrington thought her beautiful? She stared at the man through the small part in the seam. His light eyes were always steeled and sad. Lips bowed to a permanent frown, and his brow low. It seemed he lost the ability to sense beauty in the world and in any person long ago.
“She’s a talented witch,” he went on, “powerful and exceedingly necessary. I’ll work with her to control her powers. But that’s the least of our problems.” He slid the Gladstone bag across the table and held out a hand. “You have something for me?”
Rowe reached into his pocket and drew out a sheet of paper. “With all that happened, I forgot to give it to you at the scene.” He handed Barrington a folded page. “From Miss Portia Rees. She said she tried her best to draw the warlock who drained her.”
The corners of Barrington’s mouth bowed as he turned in place and unfolded the letter. He raked a hand through his hair and squeezed at the nape. “Damn it all.”
“What is it, Nik? You know the bastard?”
Barrington gritted his teeth, glaring again at the picture in his hand. “Unfortunately, I do. His name is Noah Sinclair.”
Sera’s eyes widened, Barrington’s words like claws digging into her soul. Noah…Sinclair?
She pressed a hand to the wall, her knees suddenly weak beneath her. Noah couldn’t be alive. It couldn’t be her Noah.
“He was rumored dead,” Barrington went on, as though hearing her doubts, “but there have been sightings of him over the past months. I had hoped they’d been mistaken, but apparently he is alive and well and, to make matters worse, in tandem with the Brotherhood.”
Her legs gave way, and Sera silently crumpled to the floor. Noah was alive, and Barrington knew?
“Nasty business,” Rowe muttered. “What did he do, or given your reaction, what didn’t he do?”
Barrington sighed. “Murder, black magic, kidnapping, torture—he’s done it all. What he didn’t do was kill Miss Dovetail. Only two witches have ever survived him.”
No, no, no. Sera cupped her mouth to stifle the scream building and spreading through her chest and into her throat. She rocked back and forth, memories devouring her magic to where she couldn’t get a hold on it. It was scattered everywhere. Like her soul. Like her heart.
Rowe whooshed out a breath. “Damn, does she know?”
“Of course she doesn’t know, and you’re not to share this with anyone.”
“Mum’s the word. But are you sure you want to keep doing this, Nik? If the Aetherium knew that all the charred corpses were seventhborns and that he’s involved, they might—”
“Might what? Protect a seventhborn?” Barrington chuckled bitterly. “Don’t be ridiculous. They already think it’s a cult committing the necromancy. I tell them this, and they will think it to be a cult of seventhborns. This will be the fire needed by every opponent of the seventhborn program. They hear of this, and they will shut down the program, after which they will demand all seventhborns be either killed or banished. We don’t need another round of persecutions. We’ll lose our only chance at luring these monsters in and finding out what they’re after.”
Luring these monsters in…
Sera pressed a hand against her mouth. Her fingers trembled against her lips. A mix of fury and hurt stabbed her within. Had he meant to use her? To lure in the necromancer? To lure in Noah?
Cold, she hugged herself, the earthy scent of herbs now set to suffocate her.
“You should at least tell Miss Dovetail. She deserves to know. After last night, I daresay she’d destroy him once and for all. Her power is…extraordinary.”
“It is, but sadly she is all raw power and little control. Unless she can focus that magic, she will not survive him. She escaped him the first time due to a flare of power, but should she meet him again… No. We will find him and destroy him for what he did to her…to all the witches he’s killed.” He set down the paper. “I think we’re done here. I’ll see you out.”
Rowe took the bag and, with a resigned sigh, followed Barrington from the room. Their footsteps and words soon faded, but Sera cared for none of it. She’d heard enough. She stumbled out of the closet, her joints numb. There was no doubt now, no mystery as to why he had chosen her. He had planned to use her.
Picking up the newspaper in shaky hands, she admitted it was worse than that. He had lied. And perhaps it wouldn’t have hurt so much if he hadn’t seen the scars, hadn’t pretended to care when she told him of Noah’s savagery.
She stifled a gag, the truth rolling through her in bitter waves.
If he hadn’t asked to be her anchor.
No, no, no…
If he hadn’t asked for her trust.
Feeling outside of her body, she struggled toward the worktable. The page lay facedown on the open case file, the impressions of dead witches spread out beneath it. She neared her fingers to the sheet and hesitated, her body trembling as she beheld the proof of her folly. The evidence of his betrayal. It didn’t matter whether she flipped it over or not, the truth beat loud in her ears and burned in her veins. He had used her in spite of this trust he’d asked of her. In spite of having told her she was safe.
She turned over the page.
A vast, broken breath left her lips.
Noah’s face stared back at her, and she dropped the paper onto the table. The upward angle to his eyes, his strong jaw and fine features. An angel facade wrapped around the heart of a beast. A beast she thought was rotting in hell, and yet he lived—and Barrington knew.
She weaved her hands in her hair, dug her nails into her scalp. He knew!
The sight of Noah blurred and crackled in her eyes. It shouldn’t have made a difference. Barrington had admitted to his betrayal in so many words to Rowe, but to see it with her own eyes…
Her breaths came in quick spurts, the room shrinking around her. She spun away from the horrid picture. Questions chased one another in her mind, trailed by deafening accusations. Where was Noah now? Was he coming for her? How long did she have till he arrived? Why hadn’t Barrington told her? Why had she been so stupid as to believe he was different from all the others who saw seventhborns as something to be used, as something less than human? Why had she trusted him with the truth of her scars? Worse, with her dreams? Sound muted in her ears until all she could hear was the muffled thrash of her heart. The whoosh of her breaths. The voice of her conscience echoing fool, fool, fool.
Currents of fury-laced magic waved to her fingertips as she beheld the workroom. Heat flushed down her body, the prickling of magic seeking release. She could burn it. She could set it all aflame and burn it to hell. Reason warned her that Barrington had protection spells all over. Not to mention, it was undoubtedly Rosie who would have to clean up the mess after all was said and done. But she couldn’t let him…let him hurt her and not hurt him in return. Burn or flee? she wondered.
She shook her head. In spite of Barrington, Rosie and Lucas had shown her nothing but kindness. Would she leave them without a home? Would she endanger their lives?
Burn or flee?
Footsteps neared and stopped at the door. While she may have wished it to be Rosie, the height and air of the person told her this wasn’t so. Neither did the preceding sigh and scent of musk and sandalwood.
“I wondered when you would see the newspaper,” Barrington spoke from behind her.
Her hand tightened on the paper. She sensed him enter the room, his steps measured. A moment passed. She had yet to turn, to speak, to decide what to do with the horrid ache.
Burn or flee?
“Miss Dovetail?”
“Send me back,” she said before another thought.
He stopped behind her. “Pardon me?”
“I want to leave.” She shut her eyes and braced her spine, her control and voice weak. “Only you or Rosie can allow for it, so send me back.”
He sighed weightily and moved away. Sera imagined him leaning against the table as he so frequently did, considering her.
“Aren’t there things we should discuss first?” he asked, at ease. “Namely, how you nearly cost us both our careers and our freedom?”
Her breaths grew tighter.
“What you did was noble but incredibly foolish. I’ve been through and have handled far worse than a Barghest. While I appreciate your effort, your powers are for the most part untrained, and I need to know that from this day forward, you will listen to instruction. I trust this will not happen again…” There was a long pause before he continued. “Is there a problem, Miss Dovetail? The newspaper in your hand tells me you’ve seen I kept my word.”
She opened her eyes and spun. Barrington sat on the table, just as she’d expected. Dressed in all black, he was a vision of elegance and grace. Yet, beholding him, Sera thought of the devil—cold and manipulative. Selfish with eyes the color of the sky, fit to lure one to think they could fly, only so he could delight in watching them fall.
He lowered those eyes to the newspaper, whose edges curled in flames and floated down as ash beside her. “You’re angry,” he noted with some surprise. Black lashes lifted, and his gaze narrowed. “Do you think me wrong for moving the body? Think it unfair to the poor girl? I did what I thought was best.”
“Best, of course,” she returned. “It’s always been about what you thought was best for you, regardless of anyone else.” She looked at the picture beside him. “Most certainly not me.”
His brow dipped slightly. He trailed her gaze. “Miss Dovetail—”
“I was in the pantry,” she confessed before he spoke again. Before he lied again. “I was helping Rosie. I heard everything.”
He made to speak, but she raised a hand. “Don’t say a word. Everything you say is a lie.”
Barrington’s jaw pulsed, but he said nothing.
Sera shook her head, a bitter laugh in her throat. “Tell me, should I be more disgusted in you or in myself? After all that’s happened to me—to my people at the hands of Purists—I should’ve known better than to fall for your trap. You’re just like them.” She pointed at Noah’s picture. “Just like him.”
At this he looked at her squarely. “I’m nothing like that monster.”
“You’re right,” she seethed through gritted teeth. “You’re worse, and don’t you dare say you’re not.”
Light eyes hardened, a mix of gray, anger, and offense. If looks burned, Sera knew she’d burst to a cloud of ash, settling beside that of the newspaper. Still, she went on.
“He fooled me with promises of magic, and you…you tricked me with my dreams of becoming an inspector and finding my family. At least for the monster he was, he was brave enough to stab me while I faced him. But you’re too much of a coward. You ask for my trust and then stab me in the back. You promised to help me become an inspector only because it was not a promise you would have had to keep. I would be dead before ever seeing it come to pass.”
His shoulders lowered with a slow, measured sigh. “Not that it matters what I say, but know that I don’t waste my time on failed experiments. If I didn’t think you capable—if I didn’t think myself capable of protecting you—I never would have chosen you as my assistant.”
“Oh, that’s grand! Assistant? You could have chosen any seventhborn to be your assistant, but you chose me because you knew he’d come after me. I’m not your assistant, Professor. I’m your bait.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying, and I won’t do this with you right now.”
He walked out of the room, finished. Snatching up Noah’s picture and case file, she followed him to his office. “No, of course not. You don’t spend time on failed experiments, do you, Professor?”
He shook his head, sat down at his desk, and moved a stack of folders before him. “It means I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Calm, he opened a file and resumed his work.
“When I’m like what? Offended? Betrayed? Hurt?” Each word churned the anger in her belly. “Oh yes, you expect me to feel nothing at all because those feelings are reserved for humans, not monsters like me.”
Barrington’s hand tightened on his pen, but jotting down notes on the file, he remained quiet.
Sera pulled out an impression from within the file and threw it at him. “Was she a monster?”
She thrust another at him. “What about her?”
Another. “And her? Was she human?”
The impressions floated around him, but he didn’t say a word, a portrait of sophistication and poise.
Sera stormed to his desk. Hot tears in her eyes, she cleared the surface in one swipe and slammed the case file down before him. “You will look at me!” Flames flared with a roar and engulfed the curtains. “You owe me that much. Look me in the eyes and tell me my life means something to you. That I wasn’t bait.”
He gazed at the scattered impressions. Settling back, his eyes remained on the photographs before him and never lifted to hers or the flames that shaded them in amber. He rubbed at his lips, the debate to speak heavy on his brow. Ultimately, he looked to Filip’s portrait behind her, then met her stare and kept silent.
A dizzying coolness rushed down her body and numbed all in its path—her mind, her heart, her lungs, her knees. The flames around them died with a hiss, leaving Barrington and Sera to ashes, smoke, and shadows.
“That’s it, then,” she said, though unsure whether she’d made a sound. She nodded and straightened, anger no longer an emotion. There was nothing, just scattered dreams of a referral she would never get and a family she would never find.
One moment she was before his desk, the next she stood at the center of the room as smoke filled the space between them.
Barrington rose, and where he was supposed to have told her that her life meant something, he aimed his wand at her feet.
She fell into darkness.