Chapter 20

20

I mmediately, Ambra releases Gurlien, flashing a shield up around him, as an automatic trap snaps around them, tearing into Ambra’s exposed skin and drawing lines of fire across her face.

Bianchi, with her yellow hair curling wildly around her round face, staggers backwards, kicking up the kitchen table towards Ambra, who bats it away with a flick of her hand.

If the trap didn’t kill her, a single piece of wooden furniture certainly isn’t going to.

Between one moment and the next, Ambra snaps out her power, drawing it close to herself, tearing the strip right out of Bianchi’s hands, leaving them bloody.

And just like that, Bianchi freezes, going stock still, pale.

“Remember me?” Ambra asks, and the skin on her cheek stings, so she sends a bit of the power to seal it up, heal the wound in real time.

Behind her, still in the protective shield, she feels more than hears Gurlien backup, getting out of the way of any battle.

Good. She likes him being smart about this .

“What do you want?” Bianchi whispers, her voice the same soft accent that Ambra remembers. “I didn’t do anything, I never touched you, I never hurt you.”

She raises her hands, dripping viciously red blood, an obvious surrender.

At least she knows she’s overpowered in this situation.

“Is this about Toronto?” Bianchi continues, her eyes flickering past Ambra, towards the hallway to the other room. “I didn’t do any protections in Toronto, I didn’t keep you there.”

It’s an odd tactic, one that Ambra didn’t quite anticipate. She had expected more of a fight, expected more chaos than this.

“We want information,” Gurlien says from behind her, faster in the uptake than Ambra. “Nobody has to be hurt if you give it to us.”

“Anything,” Bianchi breathes, immediate. “Anything you want.”

Ambra narrows her eyes at her, and she blanches. It’s a far cry from the scientist willing to berate people cutting into the skull of an active demon.

“Nalissa’s event,” Ambra says finally, before she pokes a wound on her hand to close. “I know you have your contacts in Paris, you know about it.”

Bianchi’s eyes widen further, and Ambra bares her teeth at her, no hint of a smile.

“What do you need to know?” Bianchi asks, slow, and her shoulders are tight, like she thinks she can grab some magic from Ambra, tear it away from her if she only catches her off guard. “Nalissa hates me, she doesn’t share her information with me.”

It’s a lie, a small tightening around her eyes, like she hopes Ambra doesn’t notice .

“You still have all your maps,” Ambra says, and Bianchi winces. “I saw you sketching them, saw you keeping track of everything. Or did you think I wasn’t aware?”

Gurlien draws in a breath at that.

“I didn’t think you were conscious,” Bianchi replies, voice hushed, and her eyes flicker down the hallway again. “You were…aware?”

“Every bit,” Ambra replies, and to her horror, the anger turns her voice into a growl.

“Was Misia?” Bianchi asks.

Misia.

Immediately, fear slams into her, fear so strong it floods her mouth with bitterness.

Terror, at the surge of protection Ambra couldn’t give her. At the helplessness of the strings of her soul tearing into pieces, at the slow and steady ripping apart of what made her—her. Of the screaming that Ambra couldn’t stop, of the pain that she couldn’t soothe.

Of the helplessness that drowned Ambra, helplessness that she couldn’t do a single thing.

Of the vicious hot tears she left on the face, even when she disappeared and it was just Ambra.

In front of her, Bianchi cowers away, her hands above her head.

“Misia,” Ambra starts, and she hadn’t let herself speak, think, or remember the name, “was already dead by then.”

Ambra snaps a bit of her power out, grabbing onto the wood of the chair, a provincial carved bit of decoration, old with age, and shreds it, sending shards around the kitchen, peppering into Bianchi’s arms.

It doesn’t help, even when Bianchi screams.

Standing there, in the kitchen, all the power in her hands and all the control possible, and Ambra still aches with the uselessness of that exam table.

“I didn’t know,” Bianchi rasps out, her heart beating so hard Ambra can see it pounding at her throat. “I didn’t know, I thought…I thought it was theoretical, they said you felt nothing.”

“And you believed them?” Ambra growls, taking a step forward, and the magic swirls around her feet, kicking up splinters of wood. “You would believe someone like that? You would—”

A rush behind her, a tangle of motion, and Gurlien grabs her hand.

Ambra jerks, but he grips her tight, and she catches a glimpse of the white of his eyes behind his glasses, of his face devoid of color, of fear drawing lines sharp next to his lips.

He’s still untouched, the shards of wood no match for her shield, and he stares at her.

And he doesn’t have to say a word, his hand in hers.

Ambra lets the power seep away from her, lets it relax back into its place, and Bianchi whimpers.

Gurlien inclines his head at her, and she’s not sure why, but it’s some sort of recognition, some sort of acknowledgment of her.

“Give us your maps,” Gurlien says, and his voice is quiet in the aftermath. “Give us your maps and all your research on the defense.”

“Desk drawer, false bottom, scroll protector,” Bianchi blurts out, pointing. “Everything’s there, take everything, please.”

Gurlien nods, then squeezes Ambra’s hand, before stepping into the other room .

Leaving Bianchi and Ambra alone, Ambra turns her attention back towards her.

“If you tell anyone I was here, I will know,” Ambra says, as neutral as she can, her voice still tight and sore. “I will know and I will kill you then.”

Bianchi’s already nodding along, her face screwed up and turned away, her eyes squeezed shut. “I didn’t know,” she repeats.

Ambra forces herself to take a step back, and she had cracked the very tile she had stood on.

“Nalissa knew,” Ambra says, into the silence only broken by Bianchi’s harsh breathing. “Korhonen knew. Rastian knew. Johnsin knew.”

“Oh my god,” Bianchi whispers. “Oh my god.”

Then, finally, she lifts her head, and streaks of blood have mixed with sawdust and tears.

Something similar to shame eats at Ambra, worming its way into her gut.

“Nalissa tried three other times after you,” Bianchi says, and a chill shoots down Ambra’s spine. “They’re beneath her catacombs. She wanted full control. None of them were successful.”

Ambra rocks back on her heels, as Bianchi watches her.

Gurlien emerges from the other room, carrying three poster protectors, the type found in art stores to protect drawings.

“You’ll find more like you,” Bianchi continues, “but wrong. Corpses that you could have been.” Incongruent, she hiccups, and a few more tears run down the sludge on her face. “I didn’t know, I thought it was humane.”

And here Ambra stands, a living, breathing example about how none of it was humane.

Stepping forward, Gurlien brushes his shoulders against Ambra’s, tilting his body towards her, and Ambra tears her eyes away from the destruction she just wrought to meet his gaze.

“Let’s go,” he says, voice dipping low.

“Gurlien Banks?” Bianchi asks incredulously, as if that’s the confusing part of all of this. “Wait, is that you? What are you doing involved?”

Gurlien opens his mouth to respond, but Ambra grabs him by his shoulder, teleporting away.