Page 4 of Spirit Storm

"You can't manifest things."

"I can try."

"That's not how your magic works."

"Wylder," I set the fork down. "Let me have this."

The corner of his mouth curves. He lifts his wine glass and raises it toward me in a toast. “To manifesting.”

We've both cleaned our plates—Mediterranean lamb served over parmesan polenta for him, and a mushroom risotto for me that is worth every minute of the half-hour drive—and now we exist in the comfortable aftermath of a genuinely good meal with nowhere urgent to be.

It feels almost illicit.

Like we're getting away with something.

"I can’t believe Mica's been gone three weeks." I turn my wine glass slowly by the stem. "One second she's there, and then the next, the Cinderheart Forge just took her. Is that normal? Is she hurt, scared, trapped…”

"She's fine."

I want to believe that. “You don’t know that. I’ve read through every text and tome we have on the mythical forge, and there’s nothing about where it goes or how to get it back.”

"She's fine," he says again, with the calm certainty he deploys when he actually believes something rather than when he's trying to make me feel better. "The forge accepted her. That means she's in. Whatever happens in there is by design, not by accident."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I know Mica." He sets his glass down. "All the years you were robbed of being here, Mica and I were in the coven together. I know her. She’s smart and strong, and her metal affinity is incredible. The forge chose her for her awesomeness, and it’s lucky to have her.”

I take another drink. “Yeah, she’s pretty awesome.”

“She is. And while you’re here worrying yourself sick, she’s out there somewhere learning how to work a mythical and also mystical piece of equipment she’d dreamt about. She’s living her best life."

I exhale. "Okay, you're probably right.”

"I'm definitely right. There’s no need to borrow trouble. We’ve got enough of that to go around.”

The candlelight flickers between us, and I know he’s right. Tharuzel. Laurel. The mental, physical, and magical recoveries of my sisters and the other witches who were siphoned…

The list goes on.

But of that list, only one seems overwhelming.

Tharuzel. He’s on the physical plane, escaped our wards, and we have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. There’s been three weeks of silence, and he’s a living unnatural disaster. It feels like we’re trapped in that moment before a storm breaks—the pressure in the air building toward detonation.

"What do you think he’s doing?" I ask.

Wylder's jaw tightens. "I honestly have no idea, and that's what keeps me up at night.”

Yeah, me too. I reach across the table and touch his wrist. "If he was unleashing Hell on Earth, we’d be hearing about it. So, until we hear, all we can do is get ready.”

Although I have no idea how one gets ready to take on a major demon who escaped from the Hell Realm.

"How are your sisters?" he asks, not so subtly changing the subject.

Our server appears with two plates of chocolate tart, thin and glossy, garnished with something involving candied orange peel. We both lean back to make room, and I wait until he's gone.

"Good days and bad, I suppose." I pull the plate toward me. "Which, considering what they went through, is about as good as we could hope for. They're a little stronger every day, and Violet's getting excited."

"Excited?”