He tightened his grip on the iron shaft as the doors somehow became real. It took only a second, and they transformed from ideas into reality, and opened inward toward the room.

The connection to the mortal realm brought with it an influx of fresh air, sucked into the sanctum by the differences in temperature and air pressure inside and out. The fire which continued to eat the books leaped at the influx of oxygen. Laurence took a deep breath as it flushed out the stale, hot air they’d been inhaling, and picked out a familiar taste on it.

Blood.

It wasn’t the freshest, but it was fresh enough to carry easily.

The doorway darkened as a large, misshapen figure stepped into it. The blood came from him.

As he stepped slowly into the sanctum, the flames cast grim features and yellow hair into light, and Laurence could make out another in his arms.

Mikey.

Mikey was the source of the blood. It was dark across his chest, and Laurence heard shallow, desperate breathing from the man in Freddy’s arms.

Goddess, what the hell happened?

“He ran Michael off the damn road.” Freddy’s voice dripped directly into his mind, wreathed in cold, seething anger. “Drove himself so I couldn’t sense him. Chased Michael down like a dog and ran him into a ditch, then tortured him until I surrendered. Michael needs a hospital, Laurence. All I can do is help him with the pain. You have a plan? Yes. I see you have. I doubt it will work.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s going to make me break you again, and the quicker it’s done the sooner Michael will receive the medical attention he requires.”

Laurence held his breath. “That’s cold.”

He knew the duke was ruthless, but he was starting to see it as something else.

It was downright inhumane.

“I’m sorry,” Freddy said. “I cannot give you much time.”

“Freddy?” Quentin’s scratchy voice was full of shock. “What happened?”

“Father,” was all Freddy said out loud.

A new shape entered the doorway. Laurence held himself utterly still as he shifted all his attention onto his prey.

The duke stepped into the sanctum and looked to the fire which burned merrily before him, then he raised his head and stared at Quentin.

No, at the empty recess behind Quentin.

His features contorted into shock, mouth open a moment before he hissed, “What have you done?”

Quentin’s fingers danced nervously along his cuffs as he tugged them into place. “What I had to.”

“No.” The duke shook his head and swept the burning mess aside, scattering little more than ash and ruined leather. The fire flickered and died, and he walked past it, bringing a new one into being around his hands. “You have no idea!”

Laurence’s lungs were desperate for air but he didn’t dare make a sound. The duke moved to the center of the room, which meant Laurence now had clear access to his back, and he doubted he was going to get a better chance than this.

Quentin drew fire from nothing, wreathing his own hands in blazing light, and raised them in front of himself.

Laurence crept carefully from the wall and into the duke’s shadow. He picked his steps, one by one, through the mess and dirt. He skirted broken wood and sprinkled wax, until all sight of Quentin was blocked out by the duke’s body, and then he gripped the iron like a lance and darted forward, thrusting it directly at Hieronymus’ lower back.

The tip skittered on air inches from the duke’s jacket, then glanced aside. The coils of darkness around him had swatted the iron aside like it was a fly. Laurence’s balance was thrown, and he turned a shoulder toward the man in the hope that he could at least take the duke down with him when he fell.

But he didn’t.

The familiar sensation of a telekinetic hold cocooned him, and he snarled in frustration.

“There you are,” Hieronymus muttered. “I wondered where you were hiding. You’re a fascinating little thing, aren’t you? Let me get a closer look.”

Laurence was set upright, though he still felt off-balance, and the cocoon dragged him in front of the duke, between the man and his oldest son, as though he were a butterfly pinned down to show off the beautiful wings it had been killed for.

“That you thought it possible you might kill me even after giving me your saliva,” the duke sneered at him, “shows you to be woefully inadequate as a sorcerer.” He gestured to the tendrils of black which drifted around him like smoke.

Laurence stared at the spell. It had to be a protection of some kind for it to be visible. Was it possible to key wards to specific people?

It had to be, or the duke’s words made no sense. It also explained why he hadn’t worried too much about being unable to see Laurence when he’d entered the room. He already knew Laurence couldn’t kill him.

Fuck.

They’d lost everything, and all because of some fucking spit.

“You have Icky,” Freddy said as he stepped back against the wall, Mikey cradled to his chest. “You might as well let Laurence go. He’s of no value to you, and harming him will only render Icky even more stubborn than he usually is.”

“Release him,” Quentin said. He spoke with such calm that his words were alarmingly quiet.

The duke gestured toward the metal in Laurence’s hands. Flame licked perilously close, and Laurence’s pulse thrummed in his ears as the makeshift lance was torn from his grip and landed in the duke’s outstretched palm. “No. You have both shown that you will only do as you are told when there is leverage available to use against you. Frederick will do as he’s told so long as Michael’s life is on the line. You will obey so long as Laurence’s life relies on it.”

“Well it appears that Michael’s life won’t be a bargaining chip for too much longer if you do not let him go,” Quentin murmured.

“I concur,” the duke agreed. His teeth flashed in the firelight as his lips curled into a snarl. He looked past Laurence to Frederick. “You know what to do.”

Freddy raised his head. “Only if you answer one question.”

Laurence gave up silent thanks to the Goddess that Freddy was still willing to delay as much as he could, despite Mikey’s condition.

“I am done playing games with you, Frederick!” the duke roared. He hefted the iron in his hand like it was the crop he’d had so much practice beating Quentin with.

“If you kill Michael, you lose your leverage altogether. One question.” Freddy eyed the makeshift weapon. “Did you kill Mother?”

The duke snarled as though this were old news. “Yes. Now get on with it!”

Freddy nodded faintly and looked to Laurence.

“I cannot delay further. This will hurt. Are you ready?”

“Do what you gotta do, man.” Laurence screwed his eyes shut.

He didn’t want to look Quentin in the eye as Freddy tore him apart, didn’t want to see the man he loved as the family he’d run from turned him inside out and reduced him to the pathetic creature he knew Quentin couldn’t ever love if he saw it.

It was like flying backwards through a crowd. Every memory he’d formed since he woke up in Avalon buffeted him as he was dragged through them kicking and screaming. He grasped at moments as they passed him by, but they were torn out of his hands and melted away into nothingness.

Withdrawal came to him like a sledgehammer. His muscles were on fire and his joints ached. His mouth was dry. He spasmed in mid-air but couldn’t remember why he was there or what held him up.

Run.

Get high.

He fell to the floor in a dark room with patches of fire floating in the dark and tried to make sense of it all, but he knew the only thing that would help was heroin.