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Even with all the power and rage I’m channelling, and even with the element of surprise, he’d probably have raised his shields in time if it had been anyone else attacking him, even Brendan.

But as I’m wrenched out of my trance by the force of the magic, I see the look of utter shock in his fiery eyes. I can read his expression all too well. He didn’t think he needed protection from me. It’s not that he didn’t believe I was powerful enough to pull it off. Rather, he’d been just as confident as I had that you can’t look at someone the way I looked at him in bed last week and then blast them apart with dark magic.

The full reality only seems to hit him once my blaze does.

* * *

For the third time since my return to Mannith, I wake up from an unconscious state. Just like after the casino, Chrissie is working healing spells and Liam’s channelling magic into me to compensate for the sheer quantity I burnt through.

“She’s awake,” Chrissie calls, the moment my eyelids start to flicker.

I don’t know what expression I’m going to see on my family members’ faces. Am I a heroine for killing Gabriel or a monster for failing to save Connor? The thought of Connor makes me want to cry. But the thought of Gabriel makes me feel like I’ve torn myself in two.

I glance at my watch. It’s four AM. Only a few hours until I need to be in court.

Mum throws her arms around me as I drag myself into a seated position. “Well done, sweetheart. I knew you had it in you. I can’t believe you’ve been suppressing your magic all these years when you’re that powerful.”

“Is Connor dead?” He must be, surely. He’d almost passed when I decided to strike at Gabriel instead of bringing him back from the brink. But a miracle could have happened…

“You had no choice but to let him go,” Dad says, perching on the end of the bed.

It’s hardly a surprise, but his confirmation still makes my throat constrict.

“He’ll have a hero’s funeral,” Dad continues. “Compensation for his family. Burial on the sacred hill he died to protect.”

“And Gabriel?”

Dad twists the duvet cover between his hands. “According to our spies, he’s not dead, merely dying. We’ll see whether his supporters can summon enough power to put him back together again, but even if they do, he’ll not be in a mental or physical state to try anything like that for a while.”

I close my eyes and let the unwanted praise flow over me. If I’d saved Connor, if I hadn’t attacked Gabriel, then what? He could have taken down the Dome, killed us all.

Or you could have kept the shield intact. Attempted to reason with him. Or let him burn his magic out against your combined defensive force.

“How’s The Windmill?” I ask, desperately trying to block out my mind’s internal debate.

“The décor and the clientele took a few knocks, but nothing that can’t be fixed. Two of ours down, three of his.”

Five people dead. This isn’t a game, it’s a war. Everyone’s proud I’ve struck the winning blow, but my whole body is wracked with horror.

TWENTY-TWO

Somehow, I make it through court the next day on three hours’ sleep. My job is to examine character witnesses who are sufficiently loyal—and therefore sufficiently biased—that I can rely on them to focus exclusively on Bren’s good qualities—which are entirely real, but only half the picture.

In the evening, I shrug off my family’s comments about my physical and emotional health and the need to rest, and tell them I’m heading back to The Windmill. Instead, I head straight to the hospital in Leeds. Mannith doesn’t have a hospital for much the same reason it doesn’t have a court. Nothing bad usually ever happens unless we want it to. And most injuries can be dealt with by magic more effectively than by human medicine. But sometimes, a combination of the two yields the best results.

I’m styled in full Kate Elner costume today. Smart suit, natural make-up, hair scraped back. The disguise would not fool any of Gabriel’s acolytes—or my own family’s supporters, for that matter—but if things kick off, it’ll be good to look like the one whose side the authorities should be on.

“I’m here to see Gabriel Thornber,” I tell the receptionist. “Could you tell me where he is?” Even as I say the words, I can’t quite believe I’m doing this.

“Are you family?” she asks, in a tone that confirms everything I’d suspected about his condition. She’s clearly lightly mesmerised. Goodness knows what she believes caused Gabriel’s presumably horrific and unusual injuries.

“I’m his fiancée.” I lie with a certainty that would make a Jedi proud. It’ll be near-impossible to snap back out of the mind-tricks and mesmerism habit once all this is over and I go back to London.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist whispers. “I’ve never seen burns quite like it before—but I guess that’s an explosion at a chemical factory for you. Anyway, it’s Nightingale Wing. Third floor. He’s in a private room. Fifth door on the left if you turn right at the lifts. There are lots of other family members with him already.”

Of course there are. Family members. Bodyguards. Heartbroken admirers. Incidentally, there must be hundreds of patients in the hospital. It’s fascinating the way Gabriel has not only lingered in her memory, but brought a tragic expression to her face.

Once I make it to Nightingale Wing, it becomes clear she hadn’t been exaggerating about the number of “family” members. A selection of the more aggressive and muscular ones stand outside the fifth door on the left.