EMBER’S POV
I’m fighting so hard against the men holding me that my shoulders feel like they’re going to dislocate.
I reach through to Sapphire with every ounce of willpower I have, I scream, and I thrash, but there is no release of the power we had at the Bacchanal. There is no release of strength or divine fury, or a miracle.
All there is the ugly stench of death.
I can see down the hallway into the storage room — Maurice on the floor, chest wound bleeding, his eyes open and blinking.
Gale slumped against the pipe, still, with two holes in his chest. Harrison is standing between them with blood running down his arm from where Maurice’s knife is still embedded.
He looks at what he’s done. His son’s body. The blood. The man gasping on the concrete beside him.
He looks up the hallway
