7. Marble

seven

Wake up, Millapet.

There is a specific torture to the not knowing. To the wondering and the waiting and the anticipating. A torture in being held on a precipice, dangling on the edge of release or pain or a fall and never knowing when, or if, the consequences of whatever choice had led to that moment of waiting would come to pass.

He held her there. For minutes. Hours. Days. Milla had no way of knowing, no way of accounting for the time she lost when he was in her cell and that was the true terror because he wasn’t always there.

She never saw him enter, never saw him leave, so she watched Agent Sterne through the window in her door, attempting to pinpoint the exact moment the chronomantic’s Way gripped him, pinning his bright blue gaze on Milla, but she never could. So she frantically searched her cell, sweeping her hands over the walls and launching herself at the darkest corners. Her fingers curled around nothing, her nails scratched at the empty air.

This was a puzzle—a test—one she ought to be able to solve. Morgen had pitted her against chronomantics time and time again, teaching Milla how to recognize the crackle of their magick and the faint blur of their hexes.

“Your Ways are not dissimilar,” she had lectured. “You advance rot; a chronomantic advances time. You both hold the key to eternity in your hands.”

“Then why are they Fine and Faire, and I’m not?” she had asked. Morgen shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling in apathy. “It’s not fair.”

“No, it is not,” Morgen stated. And then she gestured to the chronomantic on the field.

Milla had evaded their hex and the next, seizing the magick and twisting it into something of her own.

But now, she had no magick. She was a Waybound witch, and there was a chronomantic in her cell, so she raged and shrieked, tearing over the marble walls and tossing her bed until he arrived, entering without a word and going to work.

You’ll drive yourself crazy like this Milla. Wake. Up.

He never touched her, never stepped into her line of sight, but he was there . If she could only turn her head and catch the brush of his fingers in her hair, but no—he held her still and kept his distance. Torturing Milla without touch, whispering in a voice almost too low to hear, and leaving her a trembling mess of nerves dragged to the very limits of her endurance only to release his Way and send her sprawling over the salt and marble floor.

And when she looked up, Agent Sterne was at the door.

You’re doing it again .

Her gaze slid away from the warped reflection in the mirror to study the empty space over her shoulder.

It’s going to scar, Millapet.

She glanced at the scar running from wrist to elbow on her right arm, now raw and red from the scrape of jagged nails over sensitive skin.

“It already has.”

More .

She spun away from her reflection, barely visible in the low light. For once, Agent Sterne wasn’t at his post, and the light filtering through the window was a warm orange-yellow. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Calling you what, Millapet?

“Yes.” She whirled and addressed the nothing. “Stop.”

No, I don’t think I will.

The door clanked. Iron gears groaned as they churned through the fine salt dust fitted into the grooves and tumblers. Milla whipped around, muscles bunching, and pressed her back against the wall, scanning the cell for any shift in the air or hint of static.

He isn’t here, Millapet.

“Shut up.” She settled her face into a carefully blank expression as Agent Sterne dragged the door open. Light filled the cell and he peered in, frowning when he saw her pressed against the wall. With a shake of his head, he disappeared from view. Milla held her breath. If he were going to appear, it would be now, when her guard was distracted and the door left open.

Instead, Agent Sterne returned with a tray in his hands. “Special delivery.”

Steam rose from a large bowl, carrying the scent to Milla’s nose. Her stomach rumbled, saliva pooling on her tongue. Ginger and garlic, a hint of anise— Oh, Goddess, is that pho?

He set the tray down on the edge of her bed and backed away, bright eyes on Milla the entire time. The door groaned shut, and she darted over, sweeping the tray off the mattress and settling on the floor with it in her lap. It was pho. Mushrooms and fat squares of tofu were nestled among the noodles in a piping hot, fatty broth, and a pile of sprouts, onion, jalapenos, and herbs filled a plate beside the bowl. She could have cried.

Instead, she jabbed the plastic spork at the tofu and mushrooms, catching noodles and raising the delicious mess to her mouth.

“Tray,” Agent Sterne stated. Milla froze, spork hovering an inch from her mouth. He stood just inside the door, hand outstretched.

“You just delivered this.” She lowered the spork. “I have fifteen minutes.”

“Correct.” He nodded, gesturing for the tray. “You had fifteen minutes to eat. Whether or not you choose to do so is up to you.”

“But I haven’t—”

Flame licked his eyes in warning, and the air tingled. She shoved the sporkful into her mouth, flavor bursting on her tongue and gone all too quickly. She dropped the utensil into the bowl, splashing tepid broth on her knee. It crawled rapidly across the fabric, drowning it in cold.

“Now, Probuditna,” Agent Sterne barked.

She grabbed the tray and burst to her feet, rushing across the room on jittery legs and thrusting it into his hands. More broth spilled over the bowl’s rim, and Agent Sterne whisked away, the door shutting in a blink.

It was all so fast—too fast. Why was everything so fast? And the broth—it had been hot, steam rising and filling the cell with its delicious scent, but then it was cold, and that made no sense unless …

Milla straightened, holding her body tight. Still. The jitteriness in her legs had not subsided, and only now did she notice the rapid beat of her heart. The short, staccato breaths.

She inched toward a corner of the room, or at least, she thought she did, but time was not moving the way it should and she slammed into the salt and marble, biting her tongue to keep from crying out. Faint orange light glowed through the window, lighting a singular patch in the center of her cell.

He could be anywhere, and she’d never see him. She would never know for certain if he was actually there until it was too late.

But didn’t she already know?

You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.

The voice filled Milla’s head, bouncing off the curves of her skull and forcing her down into a crouch. She closed her eyes and covered her face in her hands.

“You’re not a ghost,” she whispered, her voice weak and thin. “You’re Gone.”

Do you hear that?

Milla swung her legs off the mattress and cocked her head, straining to hear what he had. A footstep?

Goddess, she was exhausted. She was probably hearing things, but if he heard it too, then it had to be real.

Didn’t it?

There, hear it?

And she did—the faint tock of a bootheel against marble. And another, drawing closer. Her fingers prickled, pins and needles climbing into her palms. She would only have one shot at this. Goddess knew he’d never let her try a second time. Gears groaned in the door, and she tensed her muscles, ignoring the spread of pins and needles to her toes. Tumblers clicked and whirred, the door cracked open, and Milla launched from the mattress, sprinting across the cell.

The tingling in her fingers and toes shot up her limbs. The walls stretched around her as the door grew further away without moving at all. Her arms slowed and stilled, and glue encased her legs.

Milla pressed against the hex, muscles screaming as she fought against the witch she could not see. She was faster than this, better than this. Even tired and hungry and half out of her mind, Milla was better than this. She was trained by the Morgenhexe. She had been broken down piece-by-piece and rebuilt by Ezra, made into the witch she was, and she could do this .

Every muscle in her body snapped, the tingling fell from her arms and legs, and the walls rushed forward. Milla crashed into Agent Sterne. He spun her around, one hand gripping her skull, turning her head, and pressing her face into the salt on the walls. The burn was immediate, crawling into her jaw and up to her temple. She whimpered and wriggled against him, but Agent Sterne was stronger. Bigger.

“ Verdammt noch mal ,” he cursed under his breath. For fuck’s sake . She knew that one. Horned God knew Morgen had uttered it enough. With a booted foot, he kicked out her heels, forcing Milla flush against the wall.

“This is your position,” Agent Sterne snarled. He pressed hard against her head and then released, heels scuffling over the floor as he backed away, breathing heavily. He cursed again, pacing around the cell.

From the corner of her eye, Milla watched him sweep both hands through his hair, dropping his head back and staring at the ceiling as he panted. His eyes closed, his shoulders went tight, and he let out a long, slow breath. The space over his shoulder shimmered like a heat snake on a summer horizon. Half a heartbeat later the tingling resumed in her fingers and toes, crawling into her belly and holding Milla in place, one eye on Agent Sterne and the witch hiding behind what faint light eked in from the hallway.

Heels clacked against marble, echoing sharply down the hall and growing louder as they approached. Not boots. Heels.

A visitor?

Milla shambled to the wall, biting her lips as she placed her palms against crusted salt. Tiny grains crunched under her scars, driving into the narrow channels of her skin. The tingling numbed most of the saltburn. That, or she had grown so used to the sizzle that it didn’t bother her as much anymore.

Neither prospect was comforting, but taking her position was far better than the alternative.

The gears in the door commenced their groan and churn. She closed her eyes, no longer caring if the air blurred or time stopped. What did it matter? Time did not exist in her cell. It was only Milla, four walls, and the ghosts she could not see.

Is my company that bad?

“More like uninvited.”

Beg to differ.

“Hello, Ludmilla.” Lou’s lilting accent rose above the clack of heels on marble. She stepped close enough that Milla could smell her perfume, a faint vanilla spice that made her think of cookies, blondies, pie, and cozy blankets. It was terrible. “I see they’ve managed to break you.”

“I would like to speak with an advoccultant.”

“They tell me you aren’t eating.” Lou leaned closer, bringing her face in view. “They say you’ve been rejecting meals, eating only the barest portions required to stay alive.”

“I’m eating what they give me the time to eat.” Her stomach growled, and Lou arched an eyebrow. “I would like to speak with an advoccultant,” Milla repeated.

Lou moved out of sight. A moment later, the bedframe creaked under her weight.

“Non-compliance will lead to force on our end.”

Milla fisted her hands against the wall, shoulders bunching tight. She wanted to argue, to yell that she wanted to eat, that she was starving and exhausted, and if they only gave her enough time to eat the meals they brought, and to sleep, then maybe these threats would not be necessary.

But she knew better. She was the foster daughter of the Morgenhexe, after all.

“We have a highly trained corpomantic on staff—”

“I would like to speak to an advoccultant.”

Lou’s teeth clacked together. Milla could practically feel her glare. “You will have one.”

“When.”

“Soon,” Lou snipped out. “The Coven Aural Review Board has finished reviewing the evidence and alerted your advoccultant that the time has come to make arrangements.”

“I thought wasn’t getting a trial.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” The scritch scritch scritch of Lou’s nails as she picked the mattress made Milla’s eye twitch. She’d gotten used to the silence in her cell, relishing in the emptiness between visits from her tormentor. “No one lies to an agent of C.R.O.W., Ludmilla.”

Milla bit her lips.

“Not even Keir.” Lou waited for a reaction and Milla continued failing to meet her expectations. “I thought it would interest you to know that he is on judiciary probation until a full and exhaustive investigation has been conducted.”

“Good.”

Lou sighed, and the bedframe creaked. Her heels clacked across the floor, and her vanilla cookie perfume tickled Milla’s nose. “You’ll need to start working with us. After that performance at your arrest, I hoped you would.”

Milla finally dragged her gaze away from the wall to look Lou in the eye. Her white blonde hair was impeccable as always and worn in a low bun, the severity of the hairstyle making her blue-green eyes larger and more intense. Her lips were a perfectly blushed pink, and her cheeks glowed beneath the skilled application of bronzer and from the force of her Way.

“My performance?”

“You told Keir to stand down.” Her lips pursed, the corners turning down into a slight frown. “Just as I asked.”

In that frown, Milla noted the first of many resemblances between the Simmons Siblings. Darkly frowned in the same way, as though it slipped free from behind a carefully curated mask. And their mouths formed words in a similar manner, though Lou held on to an Irish accent, whereas Darkly spoke with a whiskey-thick brogue that rolled over Milla’s bones.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said. “I did it because, despite what he did, he doesn’t deserve to be put in a cell.”

Lou studied Milla, scanning her cheeks and lingering on her eyes before rising to her bony wrists and, finally, her left hand flat against the wall.

“That’s healed nicely,” Lou changed the subject. Milla turned her hand over, showing Lou the riddle of scars on her palm. The Light Witch studied the mess for a moment and then chuckled. Another bit of family resemblance. The dry chuckle that Milla loved in Darkly’s throat and hated in his sister’s. “I thought he might have been exaggerating, but Horned God, it is really difficult to get a straight answer out of you.”

When Milla kept silent, Lou huffed.

“All of this can go away, Milla.” She snapped her fingers, and a shimmer of light sparkled from the tips. “Quick as a flash, but only if you agree. Don’t you want to leave this cell? Return to St. Augustine and Keir?”

Goddess, why did she keep bringing up Darkly? The witch had lied to her and given C.R.O.W. her location. He’d strung Milla along only to throw her under the witch-filled bus. Who in their right mind would think Milla wanted to return to that?

You do have a history.

She bit her lips to keep from responding, and Lou stepped closer. The sickly sweet scent of her perfume turned Milla’s stomach.

“Work with us,” she said.

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

“I’m a loner, Dottie.” Milla leveled a tired gaze at the Light Witch. “A rebel.”

“Come again?”

She clapped her hands four times, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls. “Deep in the heart of Texas!”

She paced her cell after Lou left, and when exhaustion and hunger won out, she lay back on her bed. Metal springs prodded into her spine and shoulder, making it impossible to find a comfortable position, which meant sleep was difficult to find.

Which was good because no matter how hard she tried, she could not get Darkly out of her head. She had avoided thinking about him for so long, and all it took was a little prodding from Lou to haul the witch back to the forefront of her mind. His sharp smile and the gold flecks deep in his eyes. His patience in helping Milla work through her Way, day after day, never once showing if he was frustrated with her inability to control her magick. His refusal to stop touching her, even when she pointed out how it was hurting him.

How he left her in the swamp only to return and lie to her face, pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.

She trailed her eyes along salt veins in the marble ceiling, idly scratching her scars as if they were the Darkly-shaped itch she couldn’t get rid of.

Stop that, Millapet .

“How long?”

Pardon?

“How long have I been down here?”

The silence in her head stretched long enough that she turned her head to scan the darkened cell, looking for the witch she couldn’t see.

You don’t know?