Only rage.
Pure.
Old.
Sacred in the worst possible way.
“The warlock who touched your fate,” she said, voice low enough to make the lights hum, “is a dead man walking.”
My breath caught.
Liam’s hand tightened around mine.
Pops whispered a curse.
Sekhmet’s gaze moved to him, then to Daddy, then to Mom.
“You feel guilt,” she said.
No one denied it.
“You think you should have seen it. Smelled it. Saved her from it.”
Mom’s jaw clenched so hard I heard it.
Sekhmet stepped closer, and the room seemed to bend around her.
“Good,” she said. “Keep the guilt if you must. Sharpen it. Use it. But do not mistake hidden poison for parental failure. This was not neglect. This was craft.”
Her eyes came back to me.
“And craft leaves a maker.”
Pops rubbed both hands over his face. “We need t
