Page 77 of The Alchemists

Wherever Seb was, he was in another solar system, adrift in a void.

Wherever he was, he was drowning.

The music grew louder, the footsteps echoing more harshly the closer they came. She knew, instinctively, that all of it—whoever was out there, wherever Seb was trapped in his brain—was Hawleyhurst, and vivid rage coursed through her.

He was having a panic attack. She’d never seen one up close, but it was obvious even without a handful of psych classes under her belt. She glanced past him, back into the room, weighing all of her bad options. Behind her was danger, approaching fast. Next to her was a trembling block of granite, just waiting for the dynamite that would blast him to smithereens.

She couldn’t get him away without getting him to move. She could fight without him, but the memory of Halloween burst, bilious, in the back of her throat. Did Hawleyhurst have Braithwhite with him? Someone else? She made out at least two sets of footsteps.

More than anything, she couldn’t leave Seb like this for another second, reliving whatever private hell trapped him, over and over.

“Sebastian,” she whispered, wriggling into the tight passageway to face him, her knees pressed into bruising cold stone, the tunnel crushing them together. Her pulse nearly matched his own as she carefully took his wrist in her hand. “Can you hear me?”

She drew in closer and pressed her forehead into his clammy one. “It’s Lily. We’re at the Fieldstone Winery. It’s November. It’s Sunday.” She squeezed her eyes closed, fighting for calm as the footsteps in the hallway became distinct and the music echoed off the stone walls of the room behind them.

“Whatever you’re feeling, it’s already happened. You’re here, with me. You’re safe.” The last statement seemed like a pretty big stretch, but she wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Nod if you can hear me.”

His head jerked once against her hair. Her heart leapt.

“Good. Good. I need you to breathe. Breathing will help.” He stiffened again beneath her hands. “You can breathe—let’s just try one breath. Together. One,” she said, breathing in deeply, slowly, audibly. Her own heart slowed as she heard him gasp in a catchy breath.

“Yes! Great job, Sebastian.” She wanted to cry then, in the darkness, from relief. “Let’s try another.”

They breathed again.

“Good, keep going. You can do this—you can do anything.”

He didn’t respond, but gradually he stilled.

“Take ten deep breaths, and then I’ll be back.”

She fished in his pocket for his knife, then crabbed past him.

“Sebastian, I know you’re here.”

Hawleyhurst.

Lily turned back desperately, feeling Seb stiffen again. She placed her lips against his ear. “Don’t listen. Don’t do anything but breathe. Cover your ears if you need to.” She kissed the side of his sweaty head.

She breathed in through her nose, claiming her Words, running cantrips, summoning everything she knew of combat from so many hours of watching Cantrèa, summoning that Sebastian, trying to tap into whatever it was that made him flow like a slipping current. He’d told her he didn’t think when he was playing Cantrèa. Lily was very, very good at not thinking.

Beneath the fear, she found a warm sort of blankness. It fuzzed out everything superfluous and focused her every sense on the idea of Hawleyhurst somewhere in that room. She ignored the music, straining for the footfalls he clearly meant it to wash out. She stepped out of the tunnel and flicked open the knife.

“I saw your car in the lot. Not exactly incognito.” His voice threw itself around the room. “What are you doing, wasting your time with that pariah?”

She saw him then, between the barrels, as she slipped down the row near the entrance, flanked not by Braithwhite but by Gemma, who was, ridiculously, wearing high-heeled boots. Gemma? Lily blinked, trying to make sense of it. Of course. Gemma wanted Sebastian, had been publicly snubbed by him. She and Hawleyhurst made a twisted sort of sense. But, her subconscious warned her, where’s Braithwhite?

“I’ve come to bring you to your senses, Sebastian. I know she’s got her hooks in you. Maybe she’s even here now.” Even in the gloom, Lily heard his scorn. “If you can hear this, Lily—and I hope you can—you have no idea what’s coming to you.”

Except that Lily did know. Whatever he thought he could do to her, it was only temporary. In a matter of months no one would be able to do anything to her, ever. The thought filled her with a sort of skating freedom. She bumped up against a barrel.

“Ah.” Hawleyhurst sneered his Apollonian smile. “So, you are here, Perkins. Excellent.”

She’d bumped the barrel on purpose. She was sick of his posturing. Better to get it over with. Using her bracelets, she clapped Fateful Lightning in his direction. It screamed down the row, bursting with scintillating light above the arched entryway, smelling like spent sulfur. Gemma shrieked and Hawleyhurst dodged, rolling around the corner of a row.

Lily sprang around the corner, and there he was. She fired again and it scorched by his cheek, lighting him briefly in arc-white clarity as it hissed past. He threw his favorite Lily-bashing cantrip at her, smashing barrels off the rack next to her. She leapt forward instinctively, barely missing having her head crushed by oak and iron. Instead of terrifying her, it kindled something inside her, awakening an unhinged, careening joy that she hadn’t known existed. Her fingers tightened on the knife.