“Great. Well, then, there is only one thing to do.” I stripped away the simplistic magic, leaving bare the closed and probably locked set of double doors in front of me. Even if they weren’t locked, their fate was written.
I strode up and kicked out. The sole of my boot connected with the latch area—the sweet spot on heavy, well-made doors.
Crack.
Nothing to it. The doors swung open with such force that a hinge tore loose. They flew toward the wall, but hadn’t been designed to go that far. Metal groaned and wood splintered as more hinges tore. The right slab of wood wobbled wildly, and the rest swung back.
I kicked it again, then took two fast steps and did it again, sinking into my anger. My fury at the elves, at being kidnapped by Lucifer, at Cahal’s treatment, and at my own murky future. When it broke and clattered to the floor, I marched to the other double door, but this time from behind it. From the direction it would swing, had it been opened, just to make it harder.
More rage to spew, more uncertainty, more fear of what was in store for my friends, who were surely in the Underworld with me, those fools—I kicked harder. Again. Again and again, battering the thing even though it had nowhere to go. The lock broke, then the handles. It bounced against the frame and came back, only to be kicked again. Once more. My boot opened up a hole. The hinges loosened from being jammed so hard, released, and jammed again.
Finally, sweaty and depleted, I stepped back, my body burning because I was trying to suck in air.
“And another thing!” I looked upward, the ceiling in my way. Two thick jets of hellfire, thicker than I’d ever managed before, blasted from my hands and sliced through the wood. I made a sort of messy oval, like a kindergartener would draw with a crayon, before punching the wood out and away, taking the spire above with it. I launched it off the side of the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it fall past the windows.
Then I started rooting around in the magic up there, looking for whatever spell was tied to airlessness. I was sick of this place being so different than the Brink. I was sick of not eating and breathing.
Or maybe I just wanted to remember how much I liked those things. Because I was starting to like my magic an awful lot. I enjoyed working on it, perfecting it, feeling it sear or freeze within me, and especially the feeling when both types swirled together, boosting me to what felt like impossible heights. I liked when I was nearly out of control with it, nearly about to blast everything around me, but containing it just enough to etch out the perfect illusion.
I liked it here, too.
Even the garden I’d sat in earlier had been amazing. It wasn’t like the Flush, which was lovely and pretty and sweet smelling. This one had plants with jagged, poisoned thorns that made you appreciate the flowers you stole from its vines. It had odd color pairings, and illogical lilies on the rosebush. I’d noticed a garden gnome when I was taking a break, nestled among the moss-covered, dense green rocks. On its face was a little sneer, and it held a painted dagger. I had half expected it to come to life and try to kill me. The fact that it didn’t made me laugh.
Occasionally, a foul odor would waft through, like a farting dog. For funsies, I’d made the flowers wilt as the smell roamed through the garden. It was a detail that should’ve already been incorporated, and one that would surely make Daddy Dearest double over laughing.
It was interesting, the garden, a mixture of fair and foul, with a hearty dose of the unexpected. I fit there. I fit in this collection of rooms. It felt like coming home.
But I fit in the Brink, too, in my house that Darius kept messing with. I fit with my off-kilter neighbors, looking out across the cemetery. I was two halves, just like my magic. I was growing to appreciate them both.
My magic was also swelling, even now. I felt it. I loved it.
Oh God, how I loved it. I felt alive. Its wildness, its power, its raging intensity—it cured my need to get drunk and chase shifters around. It was more dangerous than inciting Roger. It was more fun than lighting Cole the yeti on fire.
What did that mean for me? What did it mean for my future?
In my gut, I felt like this was a very precarious situation—a game of balance that could easily be lost as I struggled to own my heritage and hold on to my past. I needed time to figure things out.