Chapter Thirty-Two

The pain exploded from Quinlan’s abdomen, fifty fists and fifty knives rolled into one, driving into his stomach, knocking the oxygen from his lungs and folding him in half like a sapling. Hot tears seeped from his eyes, squeezed tightly shut to block out the garish bursts of color engulfing his vision. His lungs screamed for breath as he struggled to inhale, his body still convulsing from the aftershocks.

In the days leading up to Asterin’s early arrival, his magic had already begun acting up. He had done everything he could to avoid letting it out, but it was like being forced to stand on one foot—eventually he couldn’t help but lose his balance.

Before, when he was forced to repress his magic for situations requiring discretion, it had hummed beneath his skin, building in pressure with the passing of time. An itch needing a scratch—annoying, but bearable for at least a few weeks. But now . . . now, keeping it trapped inside him burned, like holding his hand directly over a fire from which he couldn’t pull away. Worse, reminding himself that he couldn’t use his magic somehow fanned that pyre. Every release felt as blissful as it had when he’d first awakened from his coma and summoned fire in his chambers, but the pain that followed each time broke him a little further.

And it was getting harder to piece himself back together.

Time ceased to exist as he crouched in the darkness, just floating on the cusp of consciousness. The pain continued to drill into him, digging its claws deeper and deeper still. He planted his clammy palms flat against the frigid closet floor.

It would be so easy to let himself surrender, to shut down, but he never allowed himself that mercy, terrified that he might never wake up again.

When the last of the pain ebbed away, Quinlan shuddered and collapsed to the floor, utterly exhausted. The absence of hurt felt like a divine blessing—and Immortals, did he savor it. Soon his breathing returned to normal. He grappled for a shelf and pulled himself to his feet. Even though he didn’t check the mark, the blight, he knew it had probably crept up to his shoulders by now.

No one knew about the blight yet, and he wanted nothing more than to keep it that way. Using the same concealing charm Taeron had discovered years ago to cover up the scars Gavin Holloway had branded into his back, Quinlan had managed to keep all of it hidden so far. For secrecy, casting the charm had been a small price to pay, especially since he didn’t have to recast it whenever the mark spread.

His greatest fear was that one day the pain would start and never end—which was why he had stolen a tiny tablet of poison from Avris and Avon’s caches. He kept it tucked safe and sound in the locket he wore around his neck. Harvested from toxic shellfish and intensified with magic, the paralysis would cause his lungs to fail within minutes.

Rose would never forgive his death. Taeron would probably blame it on himself. And Asterin . . . Asterin had sacrificed so much to save him. Perhaps he was selfish to have prepared an out for himself, selfish to take his life after so many people had helped him, but it comforted him to know that the option existed.

Just in case.

Wiping away the drool that had dribbled down his chin, Quinlan took a moment to compose himself before pushing out of the closet on wobbly legs.

He was halfway back to his chambers when someone cleared their throat. Very loudly.

Nearly tripping over his own feet in his startlement, he swung around to face his very unimpressed older brother.

“Ah, Taeron!” Quinlan exclaimed with false cheer. “Didn’t see you there.”

Taeron’s left eyebrow raised. “Obviously not. Rose told me Asterin just arrived. I would have thought you’d be with her. What were you doing in there?”

Quinlan resisted the urge to fidget beneath his brother’s accusatory stare. “Grabbing something.”

Taeron’s eyes flicked pointedly to Quinlan’s empty hands. “Air?” Without the slightest warning, his brother surged forward and latched onto the hem of Quinlan’s shirt to yank it upward.

“What in hell?” he squawked, attempting to bat him away, but Taeron held fast, violet eyes scanning every inch of Quinlan’s bare torso.

Taeron looked up. “You charmed away the scar entirely?”

Quinlan’s heartbeat quickened, but he forced himself to meet his brother’s gaze dead-on, knowing there was nothing to see but unmarred skin. “Of course. What if things with Asterin got . . . intense?”

Taeron’s eyes narrowed and Quinlan’s gut flipped. Finally, his brother shook his head, his usual good-natured smile returning. “Oh, Quinnie, I doubt she would care.”

Then Taeron wrenched his arm back and Quinlan felt the chain around his neck snap off. He lunged forward, but his brother danced out of the way.

“Give it back,” Quinlan snarled, but it was already too late. Years of brotherhood had taught Taeron to never hesitate, especially when Quinlan could so easily summon his magic to gain the upper hand.

“Never would have taken you for a romantic,” said Taeron as he opened the locket. Then he found the capsule inside and his expression went absolutely blank.

Quinlan waited, shoulders tensing, despising the silence as it dragged on and on.

Without a word, Taeron snapped the locket shut and practically hurled it back at Quinlan’s chest. His brother spun on his heel, fists clenched, and stormed off with nothing but a livid, “I’m going to the library.”

Quinlan exhaled through pursed lips and watched his brother go. There was no question whether or not Taeron had pieced together enough clues to grasp the situation—his brother was probably the smartest person in the entire kingdom, after all.

Taeron was not an angry person. In fact, this was the angriest Quinlan had ever seen him, and the quiet fury that had ignited his brother’s violet eyes left him feeling a little sick. But this wasn’t the time to dwell on Taeron’s feelings.

Quinlan’s boots squealed against the floor tiles as he raced back to his chambers. How long had he abandoned Asterin? He had no idea, but suddenly the want for her—her touch, her warmth, her voice—threatened to overwhelm him. After smoothing his clothes and ruffling a hand through his hair, he knocked on the door. When he heard no response, he turned the knob gingerly and entered.

The first thing he noticed was that the sky outside his window had already faded to dusk, and that someone, presumably Asterin, had lit a few of the sitting-room lamps. They cast lengthening shadows across the oakwood floor like omens.

If the sun had set while he had been fighting through his episode, then . . . not just minutes had passed, as he had assumed—and as he had promised her—but hours.

Quinlan drifted around the sitting room, nudging into the other chambers, but they all stood just as empty. He called out her name, clinging to the slim hope that she had stayed. But it was pointless.

Asterin was long gone.