“Good.”
“Dariah,” Selia leaned over the table. “The time has come.”
“I understand.” Dariah nodded, her cheeks flushed. “Do what you must.”
Selia glanced at the exiled immortal. “I need your ring, Xanthus.”
“Do you? I’m afraid it’s not for sale,” Xanthus said smoothly, looking down at the thick piece of jewelry on his right hand, “but I’m happy to give you the name of the artisan who created it for me.”
“Dariah, you should know that I’ve been preparing for tonight since you left. Each day has felt like a year as I’ve watched my beloved son fade away before my eyes. You know I’d do anything for him. Drop your hold on your vanity for a moment and see if you can feel my restored magic tonight.”
Magnus watched his grandmother, not certain what she meant. Had she not told them that she required the bloodstone to restore her magic?
Dariah’s false beauty shifted and shimmered as she frowned. “Yes, I can feel the blood magic. Selia, how many have you killed to achieve this?”
“Enough. This city is full of men who’ll never be missed. I like it here.”
“What?” Magnus said, shocked by this admission. “When have you done this? You’ve been by my father’s side nearly every moment since we’ve arrived.”
“Every night after you all retire to your rooms.” Selia turned her patient smile toward him. “I need very little sleep, my sweet. And neither, it appears, does this city.”
“You don’t think I’ll try to stop you?” Dariah’s voice trembled.
Stop her? Magnus shifted his attention to the other witch, his confusion only growing.
“You can try.” Selia raised her chin, her lips thinning, her grip on Dariah’s hand tightening. “But you’ll fail.”
Dariah gasped, her free hand flying to her throat. “But . . . I . . . thought—”
Without another word, the woman’s beauty fell away like a mask, her older, wrinkled face revealed beneath her magic, and she slumped down to the tabletop.
Magnus regarded this with shock.
“You killed her,” Xanthus said, his voice low and dangerous.
“And you didn’t try to stop me.”
His eyes met hers. “Your magic is stronger than any witch’s I’ve ever witnessed.”
“Witches who are willing to do what is necessary can have nearly the same magic as a sorceress. For a short time, anyway.” Her gaze returned to his hand. “Now, about your ring.”
His gaze hardened. “My ring is not—”
Selia brought her dagger down hard and fast, and Xanthus’s index finger skittered across the table, leaving a bloody trail behind.
Xanthus roared in pain and lunged for Selia. “I’ll kill you!”
Fire lit him up a moment later, covering him in an instant. He tried to bat at it, to put it out, but it was too fast and ferocious.
“Come with me,” Selia told Magnus as she snatched the ring off the severed finger and slipped it into her pocket.
Magnus turned away from the screaming man on fire and rushed to follow his grandmother out of the tavern, leaving the other drunk patrons in confused chaos.
“Did I surprise you?” she asked as they made their way back to the tavern.
Magnus had remained silent, trying desperately to compose himself after what he’d witnessed. “I would have appreciated knowing your plans ahead of time.”
“Would you have tried to stop me?”
“From killing a witch and an exiled Watcher? Not at all,” he replied honestly. “I take it the bloodstone is hidden within the ring.”
“It is. I have exactly what we need.”
Magnus wanted the bloodstone for himself, but the thought of trying to take it from his grandmother after seeing what she’d done without barely blinking an eye . . .
Best for the moment, he thought, to stay entirely in the witch’s good graces.
Selia didn’t pause as they entered the inn, crossed the hall to the staircase, and ascended to the second floor. Magnus felt a little unsteady on his feet, thanks to the bottle of wine he’d quickly consumed, but his mind was still mostly clear. As he passed Cleo’s door, he brushed his hand over it, then followed Selia down the hallway and around a corner to his father’s room.
Inside, a skeletal man with flesh the same color as his bleached sheets lay on his bed.
Magnus hadn’t seen his father since their chat in the tavern. He’d gotten much worse. His lips were dry and cracked. The circles under his sunken eyes were as black as the night sky. Even his dark hair had grown brittle and gray. His eyes, the same brown as Magnus’s, were clouded over.
“My son,” the king rasped out, weakly raising his hand. “Please, come here.”
It always came as a shock to him when the king said please.
Magnus reluctantly sat at the edge of this father’s bed.
“I know you won’t forgive me. You shouldn’t forgive me. My choices, especially with you . . .” The king’s milky eyes were glossy. “I wish I’d been a better father to you.”
“Spare me the deathbed confessions,” Magnus said, his throat thick. “They’re wasted on me.”
“Shh, my darling.” Selia sat on the edge of Gaius’s bed, her hand to his forehead. “Save your strength.”
How Magnus had longed to put a sword through his father’s chest, to avenge his mother’s death, to make the king pay for all the years of abuse and neglect. To watch the life leave his eyes once and for all.