Victoria had no idea what to pack to storm a castle. She pulled her laptop from her backpack and refilled the interior with a change of clothes and a few necessities. She didn’t own a battering ram or a Trojan horse. She had to hope Adam was handling that type of luggage. She probably was completely out of her depth when it came to a physical battle, but she couldn’t stay away. She had to go to Michael. She had to go with Adam. He needed her. Her affinity thrummed that truth in her heart with its every beat.
She changed into dark jeans and a black T-shirt. She dug a belted leather blazer with utility pockets from the bottom of a suitcase Kat had filled with extraneous things she’d never need. She found a pair of boots and swapped them for her sneakers. She knotted her hair up tight in a thick bun.
And then she paced.
Her bulging little backpack mocked her from the chair where it waited.
When she stepped onto a stage—well-rehearsed and gifted with the natural tool of voice she needed for whatever part she played—she was never afraid. This was so different she didn’t know how to handle the hyperventilation and fear except to move toward what she was most afraid of.
She waited far longer than she should have. She should have known Adam Turov believed in sacrifice more than he believed in her.
* * *
Once Adam made the decision to go after Michael all the way to the Order’s compound in the mountains, his other decision was also made. Victoria D’Arcy could never be allowed to go there. The idea of her in that most corrupt of places was more than he could accept.
Hell was a better alternative.
In his rooms was a cold brazier he’d used sparingly in the past hundred years. He used it now. He inscribed the necessary words on parchment and held it over the brazier. He cut his palm deeply with a small ritual knife. When his blood dripped onto the page, smoke rose in acrid curls to creep around the room. The parchment didn’t burn, but the words blazed ember bright. Adam spoke the summoning aloud while his wrist cauterized itself.
He called the daemon king.
He called him by name.
To protect Victoria D’Arcy and to lose her forever.
* * *
Victoria stopped in the middle of the cottage’s living room and gasped. She pressed her hands to her stomach, but the muscles there didn’t ground her. Her diaphragm didn’t tighten and respond. The hum that had hovered near her lips since her first kiss with Adam was gone.
A more scorching burn had returned.
“No,” Victoria protested. Sweat broke out on her forehead and trickled down her face. She tasted perspiration on her lips. “You don’t get to decide how best to save me,” she told Adam as if he could hear her.
She stumbled to the chair and picked up her backpack. She slung it over her shoulder and went for the door. She was not going to hide in hell while her child suffered in the hands of the Order of Samuel. And it was time to let two arrogant men know exactly what she thought of their making such a decision for her.
Adam Turov might be damned, but he had no idea what hell he’d just unleashed.