Chapter 31

31

W hen Ambra awakes again, the mask is off, and the air around her chin is starkly fresh and the wards swirl above her again. A single bit of tubing trails across her face, laced into her nose, and breathing from that sends cold into her lungs.

Breathing hurts less.

A woman sits in the single chair next to the cot, reading a leather-bound book, and wild magic practically drips from her fingertips. Her dark hair is tied back in a braid, and her glasses are rimmed with gold, and there’s a thoughtful expression on her face, one that Ambra has really only seen on Wights before.

“You’re Alette from his stories,” Ambra croaks out, and the woman jumps, clearly startled.

“I…yes,” she says, blinking. “I suppose Gurlien would say something about that time. Here,” she pulls a water bottle out, cracking the seal, and there’s condensation around the plastic. “You’re probably very thirsty.”

Ambra is, and her hand shakes on the bottle. “I want to see him. ”

“Do you want me to call in Axel?” the woman, Alette, says, and she’s perfectly earnest. “So you have someone familiar to talk to?”

Ambra manages a sip, and it burns down her throat. She sputters, coughing, but even that is easier than it was before.

The edges of her wound stretch less, though. The skin is knitting itself together, even without real direction from her.

“Nalissa teleported me to use me as a shield,” Ambra says, as strong as she can. Which isn’t much, at this point. “Right as he shot. He didn’t mean to, I know that, let me see him.”

She scowls at Alette, as if she could make her point through that.

“Oh you’re just like Mel,” Alette murmurs, which doesn’t help, but she’s pulled out a phone, tapping on it, and to see the wild magic interact with the technology is a little funny. “It’s two in the morning, so I doubt anyone else is awake, but I’ve let them know you said that.”

Ambra struggles to push herself off the bed, and Alette watches, as if waiting for her to fall, her expression never wavering, even after Ambra slumps back against the pillow.

“If you’re as human as you seem, you should eat this,” Alette says, pulling out one of those cursed protein bars, the type that Misia would buy. “Gurlien said you liked spicy food, so we can get you something after you eat this, but for now…”

Ambra has to set down the bottle of water for it, one hand still tied to the bed, and Alette tears it open for her.

“Stella is grateful,” Alette murmurs, passing the bar to her, and Ambra automatically takes it, before freezing.

Stella. The little Wight she had been caged next to.

Of course this Alette would know her.

“Is she okay?” Ambra asks cautiously, unsure. The little Wight was never taken out of the cage, never given the small reprieves that Ambra did, and Ambra heard her crying at night.

The sound had reminded her of Misia at first.

Alette folds her hands, and the intricate stitching of her coat catches Ambra’s eyes. Even her coat has wards stitched into its hem.

“She’s recovering,” Alette says, picking her words very deliberately, and Ambra nods. “I think it will be an awfully long time before she is okay. She was there for six years.”

Six years is a hell of a lot longer than Ambra had been.

“Still, she said you spoke to her through the walls,” Alette continues, “nobody else there had tried to say anything, so we thank you.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” Ambra asks, then tries to distract herself by taking a bite of the protein bar.

It’s awful.

“Pretty much the entire Wight community of the Pacific Northwest,” Alette replies, and there’s a funny sort of smile on her face, like Ambra’s doing something entirely predictable.

Her phone beeps, and she glances down at it.

Ambra sits with that, with the discomfort at the mention.

“She didn’t…” Ambra starts, the coughs, twisting her face. “She didn’t belong there.”

She phrases it as a statement, but hears the question anyways.

“No,” Alette says, shaking her head. “Not at all.”

It’s even worse. At least Ambra had all the instability and chaos and murdering to her name. An innocent twelve-year-old did not.

“I can talk to her when she’s ready,” Ambra murmurs, thinking of the brief glimpse of them she got while hungover. “If it doesn’t make things worse.”

Alette watches her from behind the golden glasses, as if evaluating. “I’ll tell her that, well, I’ll tell her mother,” she says. “Her mother isn’t letting anyone near her without approval.”

Understandable.

“She wouldn’t even let Zoel talk to her without being there,” Alette continues, and Ambra remembers with a jolt that she has to have a fucking talk with Zoel about Gurlien. “Don’t be surprised if this takes a while.”

“I can be patient,” Ambra lies.

Another beep of the phone.

“Only people awake right now are Axel and T…Axel said that Gurlien is fast asleep.”

Ambra tries to push herself off the bed again, but definitely fails at that.

“Do you want Axel to come up here?”

“That’s a hard no,” Ambra mutters, and Alette’s lip twitches. “Do you trust that? He hates Gurlien.”

“Hate is a strong word,” Alette says, and Ambra just stares flatly at her. “They don’t get along.”

“He was an asshole,” Ambra shoots back, then tries to take another bite of the flavorless bar.

“If he was just an asshole, he would just wake up Gurlien and make him miserable before bringing him up here,” Alette says gently, and Ambra’s suddenly reminded of all the times she went out of her way to not interact with Wights. “Axel doesn’t actually wish harm against Gurlien, they occasionally would get together and commiserate.”

“You mean yell at each other,” Ambra interjects, then puts down the bar for another sip of the water. Every little action pulls at her chest, but even trying to grasp power to send it to healing slips from her. “They would get together and yell at each other.”

“Alright, so Gurlien has been real honest with you,” Alette comments, pulling open her leather messenger bag and rummaging through it. “I was worried he was just giving you a glorified version of himself.”

“That suggests he likes himself enough to do that,” Ambra replies darkly, and Alette’s eyebrows flash up over the gold rimmed glasses. “He thought I would hate him after hearing the story. I thought he should give himself credit for going into something he thought would kill him.”

Alette pauses, clearly unnerved, and Ambra presses that advantage.

“He thought he had to do this to save the world, and he thought he would die because of it, and everyone cast him off. I offered to be his weapon,” Ambra switches gears. “I offered to do whatever he needs me to do, to defend him against whatever he wanted, to fight whatever battles, and do you know what he said?”

Alette remains silent.

“He said that people like him shouldn’t have weapons.” Ambra takes another heaving breath, and it hurts, so she slumps back against the chair. “I don’t think he likes himself enough to even begin to try to make himself look better.”

There’s a stretch, a pause of awkwardness, before Alette hands her a small bag of candy, brightly colored and covered with a reddish powder. At Ambra’s skeptical look, she says, “He told us you sometimes have issues with food. This’ll at least taste better and we can move onto better things once you get something in your system.”

That reeks of a deflection.

“We were worried that Gurlien might be trying to trick you,” Alette continues .

Ambra snorts, which is painful and sets her off coughing.

“But I’m glad to see that he’s been honest with you.”

“He’s been kind with me,” Ambra pushes, taking another sip of water. It doesn’t quite soothe the roughness of her throat or the ache in her chest, but it helps.

Another almost twitch of a smile, and Ambra’s not trying to be charming. She doesn’t want to be friends with this Alette, not if that’s their opinion of Gurlien, not if they locked him up for four days.

“I can’t believe Chloe let you lock him away,” Ambra grumbles, then tries one of the candies.

Immediately, her eyes water, and a salty sweet spice hits her tongue instead of the cloying sugar of the other candies she’s tried. It’s a hard candy, so the spice sticks with her, utterly amazing.

“She protested, but Gurlien was willing to do so if we got you medical help,” Alette says, not noticing or ignoring the miniature revelation Ambra’s having with the candy.

“And that didn’t give you the clue that maybe he really wanted to help me?” Ambra says finally, finishing that piece of candy and immediately digging out another one.

And here, Alette pauses. Actually pauses, like she’s evaluating Ambra, piecing through her, and it’s enough to make Ambra still, like she’s a bug under a microscope.

“We have secrets here that I have no doubt the College would do much worse and much weirder to obtain,” Alette says finally. “And I hope you finish with your quest so we can tell you. And here,” this time there’s a note of distaste in her words, as she places a small plastic bottle in Ambra’s free hand, with the words 5-Hour Energy on the side. “These are beyond gross, but they will help. ”

Ambra eyes it, but it smells closer to the soda that Gurlien once gave her than anything bad.

“Drink it in one go, if you can, don’t sip it,” Alette instructs, her lips thin. “It’ll give you a jolt of energy, your heart might beat fast, but it will help rebuild yourself according to Mel.”

Ambra trusts that, at least, so she tilts her head back, shooting it.

It burns, and she coughs once, twisting her face.

Still, the door opens and in strides Axel, the same self-satisfied friendly smile on his face.

Ambra scowls at him.

“Less impressive when you’re in a hospital gown and a bullet hole in your chest,” he says easily, dragging another chair over to the other side of the bed.

“I want to see Gurlien when he wakes up,” she forces out, and her voice quavers. Of course it does.

“Are you going to kill him?” Axel asks, and Ambra gapes at him. “It’s a worthy question, he shot you, most demons aren’t that forgiving.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Ambra blurts out, and the force of it pulls at her wound, but both Axel and Alette grin at her words. “He didn’t mean to, he’s not a monster.”

Alette and Axel exchange a glance over her, and Ambra hates it.

“He told her about what happened with the line,” Alette says, and a sort of wordless understanding passes between them. “No glossing over what I can tell.”

Axel’s lips thin, but he nods, and they have a silent conversation, driving Ambra nuts.

“And that he wishes he could apologize but keeps messing it up,” Ambra says, and as one, both roll their eyes at her. “He’s a lot kinder than you were—”

“Once you finish your killing spree, I’ll explain my questions and you’ll probably understand,” Axel replies, still casual, before he shrugs. “Though from what I’ve heard, they probably sucked.”

It’s almost an apology, and Ambra leans her head back against the makeshift pillow.

“He’s okay?” she asks, after a few minutes of vastly uncomfortable silence.

“He’s absolutely fine,” Axel replies, amused. “Being an absolute prick about all of this, but he’s fine.”

And then, with them having a wordless conversation she has no hope of understanding, with a snap, the leash jerks around her neck.

She chokes, arching off the bed, her wrist tied in place.

“Shit!” Axel says, scrambling for her other side, as Alette grabs her by her shoulder, pressing her downwards.

Pain ricochets down her back, up her throat, reaching down to her fingertips, as the leash closes around her.

He can’t. She’s not recovered enough, she can’t fight back, she can’t—

An abrupt loosening, and she slumps back, keening, the edges of her vision black.

Each breath comes out in a rasping squeak, and the edges of her wound start to pull, blood welling up on the edges, even underneath the bandages.

“What was that?” Alette asks, almost imperial, like she’s imitating someone with far more authority than she has, and all Ambra can do is gasp.

“Obviously, that was the leash, A,” Axel replies, and she’s not thankful for his translation, and both of their hands are tight on her shoulders. “Ambra, can you hear us?”

She manages a nod, and there are tears on her face, starkly cold. Her wrist aches, the line of necromancy twisting it down into position even when the rest of her body reacted, keeping it at an unnatural angle.

“I—” she starts, then takes another shuddering gasp, her lungs on fire. “Get…”

With another snap, the leash tightens, pulling her chin up and closing off her throat.

She struggles against it, trying to bring her other hand to claw at it, but Axel pins that shoulder down, pressing her into the cot.

A wire wrap of compulsion, yanking her away, teleporting, but the line of necromancy burns, viciously bright, and a scream builds up in Ambra’s throat, caught behind the leash.

Before the leash abruptly goes slack, slumping her back against the cot, sweat coating her forehead.

“What do you need?” Alette says, her dark brown eyes completely serious. “Tell us what you need.”

Ambra opens her mouth to speak, but the compulsion twists itself inside of her, cutting off her words.

It’s not the leash, he’s not pulling against her, just…controlling.

In the space of a few seconds, Boltiex’s control floods through her, and he opens her eyes up to the room, immediately at the wards that circle the ceiling, then to the strip of Necromancy on her wrist.

Sharp, she can feel his curiosity.

He’s seeing through her. He’s observing, he’s putting them in danger, he’s…

“Interesting,” he murmurs through her voice. “Untie that.”

Alette freezes, staring at Axel again. “I can’t.”

“Hmm,” her voice speaks, and he flicks her eyes up to Alette, observing her face, then to Axel, and his recognition thrums through her veins. “Alette Jyoshti? What are you doing in all of this?”

Alette jerks back, then her chin juts out to Axel. “Go get him.”

“What?” Axel asks, but he’s already scrambling back, releasing her shoulder.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, fleeing the room and snapping the door shut.

“Is this your aunt’s little compound?” Ambra’s voice says, and horror spikes its way through her. He’s going to find them, he’s going to hurt them, he’s going to—

“Of course not,” Alette replies, and even though there’s fear in her brow, her voice is even. “I would never bring a demon there.”

Ambra doesn’t know if that’s true or not, and Boltiex pauses, giving her a chance to claw back her voice.

“Get me out of here,” she chokes out, her breath rasping over her throat. “I need to go, I need—”

His compulsion rushes back to her.

“You’re in the western Americas, somewhere north,” Boltiex says through her voice, taunting Alette, who’s mouth thins into a determined line. “Your aunt loved Vancouver. I can turn that city upside down to find my demon.”

Ambra’s gut twists at his possessive. They’re not going to let her get away.

“Still, necromancy on a living demon, that’s risky.” He makes her observe the strip tying to the bed, and it pulses gold, fascinating him. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I know an injured girl appeared, asking for my help,” Alette responds. “Zoel takes care of the injured.”

This catches Boltiex off guard. “She ran to the Wights?”

Alette nods. “She freed one so they would help her. ”

It’s so laughably incomplete, and Boltiex rockets pain down her spine, jerking her, as if he could tell she’s lying.

“Stop,” Alette breathes. “You’re hurting her.”

He snaps the leash tight around Ambra’s neck, cutting off her words, gagging her. He pulls her towards him, it’s somewhere off to the west, but the necromancy twists her back into place.

Alette stares, her mouth grim, and there are footsteps outside of the door, running.

A cord strikes within Ambra the moment Gurlien comes in reach of the leash, and even Boltiex recoils from it.

“I need to leave,” she blurts out to Alette, in the spare seconds between compulsion, “he’ll come, he’ll kill you all, he’ll—”

The leash jerks again, closing off her throat, another vicious attempt at breaking out of the necromancy.

And simultaneously, she feels Gurlien twist his hand in it, relaxing the grip, and she gasps, air flooding in.

There’s more than just Gurlien and Axel approaching, vivid down the hallway. Next to them, tall and willowy and brilliant against her awareness, is a Necromancer.

And Ambra knows which one, and Boltiex can’t find out.

“Blindfold me,” she pants out to Alette, who recoils. “He can’t see her, he can’t.”

Alette’s lips part, and wild magic swirls around her, sparking up in response to something Ambra’s putting out, but she doesn’t bother to question, tugging off her scarf and knotting it over Ambra’s eyes.

She descends into soft darkness, almost a shocking lack of sense. It’s not pressed against her eyes, pinning them into place, instead just blocking out all ability to see beyond it. Some light still filters through the navy-blue fabric, the dim shadows of someone blocking light and moving, but Ambra’s not able to see it.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, and there’s still the chaotic swirl of the wild magic next to her. “I need to leave, he’s going to track me down here, he’s going to find you.”

She pulls in another breath, and Boltiex worms his compulsion into her again, seeing through her eyes, expanding her senses, and she can feel his wonder at the brightness of the necromancer drawing ever closer.

Fast, he snatches her free hand to the blindfold, before Alette grabs her arm, pinning it to the bed.

He snarls through her voice, a wordless expression of anger, and that had always been his problem, the reason why the College made there be co-controllers. He couldn’t help but react to things, couldn’t help but respond to the immediate frustrations.

So, unable to teleport, unable to see through her eyes, he rockets pain down her spine.

Sharp, Ambra arcs her back, and he cuts off her air, too, gagging her again.

Gurlien twists his fingers in the leash, desperate even down the hall, and she pulls in one breath, before her throat closes once more.

Hot liquid seeps from the bandage on her chest, and Boltiex’s curiosity snaps off the pain from her nerves, sudden.

“Who shot her?” he asks through her voice, as the door to the room slams open. “Who shot her and what gun?”

Even though she can’t see, even though there’s just the navy darkness over her eyes, the awareness of Gurlien rushing in steals all her attention, even after the Necromancer—Delina—skirts in after him .

“Get her out,” Alette orders him, and Gurlien loops the leash around his arm, secure.

“That won’t work,” Boltiex says through her voice, almost sing-song, and Gurlien’s sharp inhale is almost a music to her ears. “I’ll still find you.”

Before Gurlien twists his hand in hers, in the wrist pinned down, Ambra’s breath is stolen away once more, by that simple action.

“Get me out—” she manages, before Boltiex yanks again, and blood prickles at her neck, at her wrist.

Sudden, there’s a smudge on the demon circle surrounding the cot, some sort of exit route. Power floods back into her, in her grasp, the wild magic all around sparking up in her awareness, as natural with every breath, and she immediately claws it into herself, flash healing the cut on her wrist.

The grab of power creaks the entire building

“Ready?” the necromancer—Delina, her name is Delina, she needs to remember that—asks grimly, and Gurlien tightens his grip on the leash, weaving it through his fingers. Even with the direness, even with someone actively trying to take her back, she marvels at the difference. At how massively more gentle it is.

“Who is that?” Boltiex demands through her voice, and a trickle of fear from him sits in her throat.

He’s afraid. He’s caught off guard.

“There were only four more, who’s that—”

Gurlien must’ve nodded, for in one brief second the Necromancer’s hands are on her, before the binding on her wrist slithers off.

There’s a moment, a breath, before Ambra snaps the magic around Gurlien and her, teleporting away.