34. Burnout

thirty-four

“Horned God,” she managed after a good long while.

“Mm.” Darkly stroked her back, his low voice a satisfying rumble along her shoulder and down her spine. “You alright?” he asked after another long moment. Milla might have fallen asleep; she wasn’t sure. Her body was languid and loose, all the tension, all the strain she had been carrying for, Goddess, years , gone and happily forgotten for the moment.

“More than,” she said, leaning back to assess the damage. Her Way had risen so quickly, and she had been so lost in Darkly. Little by little, tension returned to her shoulders, that band tightening around her chest as she scanned his arms, his shirt, his lovely face and found—no rot.

Not a rash, not a blemish or a blister. Only the flushed cheeks and hazy stare of a sated man.

He blinked slowly at her, stealing a soft, sweet kiss and pulling away when the phone in his armband began buzzing. Lou’s name lit up the screen, and he frowned, taking a quick step to keep his balance like he was walking on the deck of a ship.

“Are you alright?”

“Well fucked,” he answered in a distracted voice. He pulled the phone free and sent Milla an apologetic half-smile. “I should probably…”

“Yeah.” Milla stared dazedly at him, raised her palms, and assessed herself. Her Way was there, the pleasant, warm thrum in her veins, but it was—not dormant, but calm. Confused, she hopped off the stone support, wobbling on shaking legs. The ground at her feet seemed to swell and then settled as Milla regained her balance. Wincing at the raw scrapes on her ass, she pressed her palm to a cheek and muttered, “ Návrat. ” It was weak, but it sufficed, and the tell-tale tingle of healing magick bloomed against her skin.

“Aye?” Darkly glanced over, listening to whatever Lou was saying, as Milla healed the rest of her scrapes and pressed a palm to her lower abdomen. An eyebrow raised in question, and she turned away. Not that she was embarrassed. She had told him this was part of her Way, and he knew who she was. Still, a lady deserved to have her secrets.

“ Zem?ít. ” Die .

She whispered the killing hex, wavering where she stood as the rush of her Way took her from sated to tipsy.

“Some park off High Road,” Darkly told his sister. He angled his face in her direction, brow furrowing as she slapped a hand on the wooden beam where he’d just—wow, okay, that happened. “I’ve Milla, yes. What’s happened?”

Millapet.

She whirled around, nearly tripping over her shorts and bat-printed panties, her buzzed mind blaming Darkly for the nickname. His back was turned, the witch deep in conversation with his sister, and the world beyond the lychgate was cloaked in shadow.

Tugging on her clothes, she stepped closer to the Shades shutting them off from the world, trailing fingers through cool, touchless smoke and fog. Faint murmurs could be heard through the mass, distant and far away. Edged in panic. Milla jerked her hand back, marveling at the privacy Darkly had cast Horned God knew when.

Millapet.

A whorl of smoke broke free from the mass, swelling toward Milla.

“Cannae be.” Darkly raised his voice.

The shadow retreated, and a new voice broke through the muted silence. “Do you smell that?”

Darkly whipped his face to Milla, the startled look on his face enough to have her tugging her sports bra back into place and bracing her legs, ready for whatever waited on the other side of those shadows. Warmth pooled in her palms, a trickle of what she was capable of, but it would be enough. It had to be. Twenty percent of her strength, enough to heal scrapes and desecrate cells. Enough to cause a little hurt.

With a sweep of his hand, Darkly felled the shadows, and both witches staggered at the onslaught of—nothing.

Empty night.

Where before the air had crackled with magick, raising goosebumps and tickling their senses, now there was nothing. Only spent aether, the energy sucked from the atmosphere like oxygen at the striking of a match. Darkly staggered back, horror overwhelming the shock on his face, and Milla—Milla knew this hell. Had lived it for weeks on end in the cells and the moments following a ritual’s end.

“Darkly—”

He threw out an arm, silencing Milla and scanning the trees as Lou spoke. “No one, just the two of us—aye, for twenty minutes at least. Lou, what’s—” He glanced at Milla, eyes darting from her head to her feet, then higher. His eyes widened, and he staggered back. “A lychgate.”

She twisted around, taking in the gabled roof and stone support. Now that he called it out, Milla recognized how weird it was to find a lychgate in Tallahassee. They were more common in English villages, meant to shelter a coffin or a body awaiting the clergyman and burial. Yet here one stood beside an old-growth oak, tangled among the low, sweeping branches.

Darkly’s thumb pressed the screen on his phone, and he lowered his arm. “What’re the odds we fucked under a lychgate?”

Milla huffed a laugh. She had to, or else she would start freaking out. “Can’t say what the odds are, but at least it’s on brand.” A faint smile curled his mouth, and then he ran a hand over his head, the familiar motion more telling than his expression. “What’s happened?”

“The ritual, a power surge, it—”

“Milla!” Diego’s call shattered the empty night, echoing off the trees. “Peque?a bruja, where are you?”

“Here!” She darted blindly in the direction of his voice. I’m here!”

Darkly cursed and took off behind her. Soft white light from his headlamp illuminated the woods and, several paces away, Diego’s stooped figure. Trav leaned heavily against him, head lolling and legs barely holding him upright. One long arm was draped across Diego’s shoulders, and her roommate looked wild and beyond terrified.

“Milla,” he grunted, relief washing over his face when he saw her. “Help me, please.”

Darkly rushed past, hoisting Trav’s other arm across his broader back and easing his weight off Diego. The cultist groaned, mumbling unintelligibly, and slumped against Darkly, who staggered and adjusted his hold. “Mate…”

“Do you feel it?” Diego cast a wild look at the pair, the trees, then to Milla. “My Way, it’s—” Flexing the fingers of his casting hand, he shook his head, stupefied. “It is gone. One moment Trav was fine, he was fine, and the next.” He flicked his fingers outward, a motion Milla had seen him do whenever he stepped into his Way. “Nada.”

“Burnout,” Darkly said, scanning the trees.

“You’ve felt this before?” She did not know why it surprised her. He was an Enforcer and, from what she had seen of his sparring, damn good at hand-to-hex. She just had not thought of Darkly taking part in large rituals or pushing himself far enough to reach the dregs of his magick. That felt like more of a her thing to do. Except—she flexed her fingers, waving her hand through the empty, dead air—why did she feel the warm pulse of her Way?

Darkly must have come to the same realization. He frowned, raising a hand, and a slip of shadow bloomed in his palm. Trav gasped, head lifting, and blinked dazedly at the Shade. He whimpered and pressed against Darkly enough to have him snuffing out his Way.

“Aye, and dinnae fancy reliving the experience.” His eyes bled black, and he jerked his head to the west, heaving Trav into a walk. “Come on.”

He led them to an abandoned house tucked well back from the road and hidden among the trees. A handful of cultists staggered around what once was a front lawn, all of them dazed and morose, a far cry from the celebrant mood from the campground.

Headlamps and lanterns flooded the area with light, and Milla picked out the signs of a ritual scattered across the overgrown lawn: candles and black salt, focal stones, and empty vials. Goddess, the cleanup was going to be a nightmare.

A trio huddled together on what must have been the driveway. Donmar’s large figure beside two smaller cultists. Josh, she recognized, but the woman was a stranger to her. Curvy and stern-faced, she shook her head at something Donmar said, her disheveled ponytail bobbing. Josh stooped into a crouch as they approached, examining a pile of clothing or blankets on the ground.

“Donny,” Darkly hailed his brother-in-law, “have you seen Lou? Thought I tracked her here.”

Donmar whipped his head in their direction. “Careful,” he warned. Milla did not have a chance to wonder why—her next step had her swaying, knocked off balance by the absolute vacuum of power. The void was harsher here, a deep, hollow wrongness. Her Way flared, tingling against her palms and begging to be let out to feed the space. Diego grabbed her arm, cursing in Spanish as they entered the residual influence of whatever magick had been cast, while Darkly charged forward, unbothered, with Trav shuffling his feet to keep up.

“Where did it go?” he asked in a tiny voice. Diego squeezed Milla’s arm, and she was struck by the intense worry on his face. He had not taken his eyes off Trav as they hustled after Darkly, his body practically trembling as he restrained himself from stealing the mortal man back.

“He’ll be okay,” she whispered, putting her hand over his.

Diego nodded, intent on the cultist as Darkly eased him onto a wrought iron bench choked with weeds and kudzu. Shadow trickled from his arm onto Trav, and he shot upright, blinking as though he’d just gotten a straight shot of adrenaline.

“Oh, God.”

“Easy,” Darkly said in a low voice. “Wee sips. Diego?”

With a tiny, tight sound, Diego darted over, kneeling in front of Trav and cupping his cheeks. He brought their foreheads together, speaking in too low a voice to catch. Darkly stepped aside to give them privacy, a Shade still circling his arm.

“How are you doing that?” The woman with the ponytail stormed over, glaring at Darkly, Trav, and the Shade. “How the hell are you doing magick?”

“I’m a witch.” He straightened and glared down at her. “Who are you?”

“Cicerhoe, I’m helping run this shitshow.” The woman stomped a foot, hands fisting at her hips. She lifted her chin, somehow managing to look down at the witch towering over her and immediately winning Milla over. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Keir!” Lou stormed around the side of the house, madder than Milla had ever seen her. Nostrils flared and cheeks flushed, she charged around Donmar and Josh, heading straight for her brother. “Can one of you two idiots explain to me what’s just happened?”

“Lou—”

“Why were you off the bleeding trail?”

“I was following Milla.” Darkly subtly put himself between Milla and Lou, and for once, Milla did not mind being protected. “Lou, what’s happened?”

“The bloody Witch of the Demesne is dead; that’s what’s happened.” She pointed at the pile of clothes at Donmar’s feet, and only then did Milla clock the running shoes poking out from beneath the blanket she had mistaken for clothes. Josh, still crouched low beside the body, ran a hand over his face and covered his mouth.

“Horned God.” Milla grabbed Darkly’s hand without giving the motion any thought. He glanced down at her, lacing their fingers together and tugging her closer.

“Keir,” Lou prompted.

“On it,” he rumbled, eyes dripping a darker shade of black. He scanned the grounds and the body and shook his head. “No lingering Shades. I could shadestep …”

“Later.” Lou shook her head. “We’ve too much to do here.”

“How did he die?” Milla asked.

“The ritual.” Tobias jogged up the driveway, not even breathing heavily, the maniac. “If I am interpreting my E.R.I.E. correctly. I suppose we can assume the same happened to the missing witches. Has anyone seen Cyrus?”

“At the campground.” Lou sighed and looked at her brother, voice dripping in disappointment. “You’d better have a damned good reason for straying from the trail, Keir, or so help me—”

“Toby was on it.” He jerked his chin at Tobias. “I left him with the front runners when I saw Milla dart into the woods. Forgive me for trying to keep one of our own safe.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing?” Lou scoffed. “You had a task to attend to. The rogue witches were here, and now we’ve got a dead hippocromantic on our hands because you were distracted. Explain yourselves. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Darkly protested.

“The E.R.I.E. doesn’t lie, Keir.” Lou hauled her phone out and showed them the E.R.I.E. Only two signatures warbled across the screen, the rise and fall Milla recognized as her own and Darkly’s. “You two gobshites are the only witches not suffering a burnout, and the Horned God damned demesne has no bloody witch at the helm; what did you do? ”

“Nothing!” Milla shouted. “We were arguing, and then we—” She gestured from herself to Darkly, protest falling away when she noticed the faint black line curling around the tips of her nails. At the sight of it, she recalled the warmth of her Way responding to Darkly. The heat surging in her veins as he brought her to climax. Like in New Orleans, when she summoned that Shade. And the roadside motel. And in her swamp hut. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Lou arched an eyebrow.

“Ah, nein.” Tobias pressed a hand to his forehead.

“Um…” Milla looked over at Darkly, whose grip on her hand tightened. He had staggered, that quick little half step. And the ground had swelled when Milla hopped off the stone support. Darkly’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, probably recalling the same thing, and in tandem, they looked at the ground.

“What. Did. You. Do.” Lou leaned in close, her voice lowered but no less sinister.

“I don’t know!” She ripped her hand free from Darkly’s, putting distance between them. It was bad enough a witch had died, but if she was right, if they had done what Milla thought they had done, even by accident, this was going to get messy . “I was looking for Darkly because I found out he’d been moonlighting as the steward of my demesne, and then I saw Diego, and he—”

“We argued,” Darkly interjected. “And we settled the disagreement.”

Tobias muttered in German. From Darkly’s quick scowl, it did not translate into anything nice.

Lou’s mouth went tight, and she blinked rapidly at her brother. “Are you implying that by hate-fucking your Death Witch girlfriend, you two managed to not only protect yourselves from burnout but also steal an entire demesne? ”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Milla protested. Darkly moved his scowl from Tobias to her.

“I don’t want to hear it.” Lou pinched the bridge of her nose. “Horned God knows we’ve all had enough of your relationship drama to last us a decade, Keir.” She slammed her palm against his chest, snapping out her intent before Darkly could react. “ Dún .”

He staggered from the sudden loss of his Way, grabbing onto Milla to keep standing.

“Hey, whoa.” She planted her feet to keep from dropping under his sudden weight and glared at Lou. “How in the nine rings did you do that? There’s no magick .”

“S’latent magick.” Darkly dropped his forehead against her shoulder, panting to catch his breath. “Like a dispellation.”

Latent magick. What was born in the witch, the truest form of their ability that, when connected with magick as a whole, became their Way.

“Managing the Soul is as inherent to me as breathing,” Lou sniffed.

“But you can’t just ground him like that,” she argued.

“I can, and I will.” Lou seized Milla’s wrists with an alarming speed. She yelped, jerked off balance, and this time, Darkly reacted.

“Lou, no.”

“ Dún. ”

The warmth in her arms vanished, and Milla stumbled forward as Lou dropped her arms, the Soul binding on her wrists like a heavy, weighted manacle. She gasped from the shock, barely registering Darkly’s gentle grasp on her shoulders.

“We have a dead witch of the demesne,” Lou kept on, walking toward Donmar and the cultists, her back turned now that Milla and Darkly were safely leashed. “A joint challenge for control of greater Tallahassee, Horned God help you both”—this was shot over her shoulder with a disdainful sneer—“and absolutely zero answers as to what or who we are facing. If I can resolve one of our issues, even if only for a moment, I will.”

“That’s nae fair, Lou.”

“What’s not fair is the amount of times I have had to cover your ass in the last three months, Keir.” She stood over the body, staring down at the dead witch, and sighed. “We’ve a bloody crisis on our hands, and as the Elder Witch of this coven, it is my responsibility to handle it. Now somebody get Cyrus on the phone and Horned God help him if he hasn’t parsed out this fucking data.”

Donmar fumbled at his phone, and a moment later electronic ringing came over the speaker.

“Donny?” Rai’s posh voice, tinny and frantic, cut through the tense silence. Donmar frowned, glancing at his screen. “Oh, thank the Horned God, Donny. It’s madness over here. Do you have everyone?”

“Yes, mostly,” he answered, still confused. “Why do you have Cyrus’s phone?”

“He left it here to go find you. Goddess, these cultists are freaking out. I don’t have enough tea to go around, where are you? I need help—” she yelped, and a scuffle came over the line. “I said I can’t ,” Rai hollered. “I’ve got no bloody magick, you wanker.”

“Rai?” Darkly grabbed the phone out of Donmar’s hand. “Rai, what’s happened?”

“Cultists,” she snapped. “They’re desperate, where are you?”

“Where is Cyrus?” Lou stole the phone away. Her eyes tripped over the witches, and from the fear in her expression, warning trickled down Milla’s spine.

“He went to find you,” Rai answered. “Twenty minutes ago, before whatever happened happened. Is he not there?”

“No.” Lou exhaled, her gaze dropping to the body at her feet. She chewed her lower lip, and when she raised her head, her expression was set and stern. “Keir?”

Darkly nodded, handing the phone back to Donmar and stepping forward. Lou pressed the tips of her fingers against his chest and sighed.

“Do you need it all?” she asked. Darkly shook his head, visibly shaken by the news. The ritual had happened, and they had failed to stop it. A witch was dead , and one of their own was missing. “Alright. Be quick, and come back to me, wee yin.”

“Aye, big yin,” he said in a low voice.

Lou murmured her intent, and Darkly inhaled deeply as his Way was given back, his chest filling and shoulders squaring. “Find Cyrus,” she said, then pointed at the body. “Find this dead witch; find anyone who can tell me what the hell just happened.”

He nodded, mouth a tight line, black eyes narrowed. With less than a thought, he traced a sigil in the air. Smoke and shadow bloomed at his back, a whorling, contained stygian black cloud against the deepset night. As easy as opening an envelope, Darkly tore open a hole in the world and stepped through.