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“Nicole?” Hazel asked, guessing at the identity of the young witch. She was Justine Laroche’s daughter, the granddaughter of Marie, Juneau’s late sister. At fifteen years, she was the oldest of the underage witches in the Laroche family.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Hazel Murray. Can I speak to Sophie?”
“She’s not here.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No. Haven’t seen her since this morning.”
“How about your mom?”
“Sorry, she’s out, too. They’ve all gone out to fight. I’m in charge of the babies.” The last was said with the quintessential disgruntlement of teenagers who didn’t feel taken seriously.
Hazel hesitated. “And Juneau?” Considering she was lacking her magic, she wouldn’t have joined the fight.
“She lay down a while ago. Aunt Sophie said she needed rest.”
Hazel exhaled sharply. “All right, thank you. Take care.”
Dammit. Her gaze fell back on the map, on the probable fifth ward point, once again set in a rural area. Looked like she had to just drive there, canvass the area, and hope to find the exact spot before the witch—Sophie?—completed the spell. If she were lucky, she’d get to the area before the witch and maybe have time to set up a spell to locate nearby magic, which would make it easier to find the spot once the witch began her ritual.
And I’m on my own.
On a normal night, she’d call around to get backup, try to get other Elders to join her in taking down that witch. Given they were all busy putting out the fires from the demon insurgency, there would be no help coming.
Swallowing hard, she picked up her phone again and dialed Merle’s number while she scrambled to stuff the map back into her bag and pack it with essentials.
Her friend couldn’t help her tonight, but Hazel had to warn her.
Because if she didn’t succeed, Merle and Rhun and the others needed to be far away from Portland.
CHAPTER 35
Of all the things Tallak had fucked up in his life, this was the worst. Even when he’d slipped in his vigilance and dropped his disguise in Faerie at the wrong moment, leading to his capture and twenty-six years chained in a dungeon, he hadn’t felt this wretched, hadn’t wanted to crawl out of his own skin to escape the guilt tearing him apart.
Back then, he’d had the fae to blame, had been able to aim all his wrath at those who’d shackled him and ripped his lover from his arms.
This time around, there was no convenient outside target at which to point his fury.
It was all him, only him.
Just another case of Tallak doing what he did best—fucking things up and ruining lives.
He stomped up the stairs to his apartment, his gut boiling with a nauseous mixture of shame, anger, guilt, and self-reproach.
That look on Hazel’s face when he’d said those fucking things. The utter betrayal in her eyes. It had gutted him, yanked out his insides, twisted them up, and then stuffed them in his mouth so he’d choke on himself.
Oh, how he’d bristled at the mere suggestion he could be like that asshole ex of hers. And then what had he done? Taken a page right out of that fucker’s manual and cut her down with his words, knowing exactly where to stab to hurt her.
He kicked down the door to his apartment, too much rage inside him with nowhere to go. If only he could kick his own fucking self.
“Bloody fucking hypocrite,” he ground out through gritted teeth.
And the worst part? He didn’t even mean what he’d said. Didn’t even believe the shit he’d told her. Yeah, he was angry that Basil had had a fuckbucket of a father figure as a kid. Yeah, it galled him to think his boy had suffered. But that fury inside him? It wasn’t directed at Hazel, wasn’t truly aimed at her not taking action sooner.
He was fucking angry at himself.
