The thing about being broken beyond repair is that it becomes simple to float through life. I know what I’m supposed to do, and I will grieve it all later.
My little family is out there in the living room trying to conjure up a reconnaissance mission. It’s sweet and noble. I’m sure I’ll join them in their planning once I take care of what I’m supposed to do.
What they don’t know I’m doing.
The plan Sloan laid out is clear: if Sloan is ever captured, I’m to assume him dead. Whatever the enemy is asking for, light it on fire on their front yard (or as near as safety allows).
I cannot put meaning to the thought that Sloan is dead, or very near it. I cannot think of anything except for what he taught me to do.
King Regis wants my hair.
So I turn on the noisy fan and watch my tresses fall in chunks as I snip my hair into the plastic bag I have spread out in the sink. I hope the fan drowns out the sound of the clippers as the buzzing fills my ears like a jackhammer. My eyes are dead and emotionless as I buzz through my elbow-length chocolate waves. Every slow swipe over my scalp is a slice across my wrist.
My father cannot use me anymore. We’ll have to subsist on love, if there ever was any that existed apart from his affection for my magic.
King Regis has no hope of gaining more magic than nature gave him.
Sloan is dead, so my heart has stopped beating.
When I finish and take a shower, I carry the bag of my hair to my bedroom. I call down for Charlotte to come upstairs, but I don’t open the door. “I need you to ask Paxton to light a fire in the fireplace with his glare, and then get the others out of the house for ten minutes. Can you do that? I need you to stay, but the others have to leave.”
Charlotte is used to asking for odd things with no explanation given, so I knew she wouldn’t hem and haw with tons of questions. She simply flits down the stairs, and then texts me when they’ve all left.
My steps are measured as I move down the staircase wearing black slacks and a white fitted blouse, clutching the bag of my hair.
Charlotte gasps, covering her mouth in horror, but to her credit, does not ask any questions. “Arly!”
I hand her my phone. “I need you to take a video of me by the fireplace real quick.”
She’s in shock, but nods mutely, taking my phone and aiming it toward the fireplace I kneel beside.
I glare into the camera with enough venom that I’m surprised I don’t manifest Paxton’s gift and shoot fire out of my eyes.
Charlotte gives me the thumbs up to let me know she’s recording.
My voice is clear and unwavering. “Hello, Regis. Since you’ve never been a man of your word, I assume my Sloan is dead. If you think you can blackmail me, then you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
My hands are shaking, but I hold my glare.
“You stole the reason my heart beats, so now I’m destroying yours. You need my hair to get the power you think you deserve? Well, watch your dreams burn, you bastard.”
I toss the bag of my hair into the fireplace.
My face is fierce with steeled fury, but my insides begin to ache at all I’ve just done.
Before I lose my cool on camera, I run my hand over my scalp. “You wanted a war? Well now you’ve got one.”
10
Strawberry Tarts and Shadowmelding
Paxton
Charlotte tried to hug Arlanna again before we left, but it’s clear Arlanna doesn’t want to participate in anything to do with comfort. She told us that if she cries, she will never stop.
I tighten up and make a silent promise that I’ll make sure she has the space to indulge in a good cry when I get back.
“Strawberry tarts. I’ll serve strawberry tarts at the wake,” she said before Cass, Charlotte, Gray and I left the Commune of Sinners. I don’t think she realized she said it out loud, or how much that simple sentence destroyed us all.
I didn’t keep my face composed when I saw Arlanna’s shaved head. “Father’s going to handle retrieving Sloan’s body in one hour, she informed us when she came out of the house with Charlotte, bypassing any hint of needing to explain herself.
I mean, it’s her hair, her body. She doesn’t need to explain anything. But the iced-over heartbreak deserves a few words, in my opinion.
We’d all love more than a few words from her—when she’s ready, which she’s made clear, she is not.
I stood there like a dummy with my hand covering my mouth, but Gray took a step toward her palpable pain. I froze up, but he did the right thing. He didn’t demand to know why, nor did I see him trying to conjure up an explanation. “We’re here. Grieving is hard.”
Arlanna kept her chin raised, her reply crisp. “Grieving is a luxury that will happen later, when Sloan’s body is in my possession.” She didn’t bother choosing an emotion. It was clear that her entire being had frozen through. “I’m doing as Sloan instructed. If he’s ever abducted and I’m blackmailed—Sloan is my one weak point—then I’m to get as close as the front door of my enemy and light whatever it is they want on fire. I’m to assume Sloan is already dead, so that’s how this is going to work.”
Jen had turned away, her tears overcoming her and bringing on a bout of dry heaves.
Charlotte tended to Jen, and stayed behind to keep everyone at the camp organized.
Arlanna insisted on meeting up with her father, who’s on his way to pick her up from the commune. She’s buying us one hour, so I can try to reason with my father. Then her dad is going in, guns blazing.
I don’t want to see my father die for his stupidity. I want him to take responsibility for his actions, and for the people to be strong enough to demand he do so.
I want justice, not revenge.
But even as Cassia, Gray and I are rumbling along on the freeway to get to the palace, I’m not sure I’ll get either.
Cassia and I are in the backseat of Jen’s car, with Gray at the wheel. None of us knows what to say.
I close my eyes as Gray turns the corner, leading us to the street where I grew up.
I cannot lose my focus. I will not become a ruler who cannot right the wrongs in my own home. I will not take matters of the law into my own hands. I will only break the rules that oppress the people, not those that are merely inconvenient.
I will not become my father.
“I’m not so sure about this plan,” Gray says, snapping my attention back to the present.
“It’s the only one we’ve got, so it’s what we’re going with. Are you ready to do some major stalling, Pax?” Cassia inquires. “It might take me some time to figure out where they’ve stashed Sloan.”
Gray parks the car where I instruct him, which is far enough away from the surveillance cameras that will mark Jen’s teal vehicle as ours.
I run my hand over my face. “Remember the rooms I pointed out in the sketch I drew for you. Sloan will be in the basement or on the first floor. The upstairs is the family’s private chambers. Father is very strict about outsiders traipsing up there.”
“Got it.”
Gray takes his hand off the wheel and reaches back to grip Cassia’s forearm. “Thirty minutes,” he reminds her. “Less, if you can manage it. Get him to the car in half an hour, or we’re coming in after you. We can’t risk getting caught in the crossfire when Conan Valentine’s people show up.”