I stand up and come around the table. Finally, she shows me something other than scorn. Panic flares in her eyes; the Guard in the room come over to hold her as anxiety sends her limbs into motion. “No,” she shrieks at me. “You can’t do this to me. Don’t. Don’t, Chloe.”
But I lay my hand on her—gently, rather than harshly. And I take every last bit of her craft out of her. It’s surprisingly easy; all I do is reach inside and pull it out, like it was nothing more than an extra shirt over her head.
She breaks down sobbing, screeching how much she hates me, how I’ll be sorry, how someday I’ll pay. But I choose not to listen to her. She can’t hurt me anymore. Not now, not with Enlilkian gone.
I stand up and leave the room.
When I come home, I find Jonah and Kellan sitting in our living room. I’d asked them to stay behind when I went to visit Sophie; it wasn’t fair dragging either of them back into that mess, not when it’s time for us to put it all behind us.
I perch on the edge of Jonah’s chair. “It’s done,” I tell them.
My husband reaches up and takes my hand. “Are you okay?”
I nod. It’s funny, I’ve just taken all of Sophie’s craft, and yet ... I don’t feel it in me at all. On the walk home, I let it go into the autumn winds blowing leaves through city streets. I have no need for her craft.
I’m not Enlilkian.
“When is she going to have her memories blocked?” Kellan asks.
He’s been surprisingly distant since coming home from the hospital. I try to ignore the pleasure that comes from him finally acknowledging me. “I think in a few days? Maybe a week. The Guard is working out the logistics.”
He looks at his brother and then at the window. And then he says, “Chloe, I am no longer a Magical.”
My mouth falls open. Shuts.
“After you two went home from the hospital a few weeks ago, I purposely stayed behind and asked Kate to run a bunch of tests on me. To figure out why I didn’t feel ...” He blows out a quiet breath. “Right. Or, the way I used to. Especially after our talk, you know?”
Everything around me, us, it all just stops. Just ... freezes, not in the way that Enlilkian or I can make time do, but in the way that life forces on us when everything is precariously close to collapsing down around us and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. “But,” I say, but he’s not done.
“I told you I couldn’t hear my brother. I couldn’t feel any of your emotions. I still can’t, Chloe. They brought in another Seer and then another. I’m no longer a Magical. I no longer have a craft. Fate no longer controls my life.”
I can’t breathe. He’s not really saying this to me right now. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.
“Haven’t you noticed?” Kellan asks me quietly. “Haven’t you noticed how, when we’re in the same room together nowadays, you no longer feel me?”
Stop. I need this moment to stop right now.
He continues, “I am no longer a Magical. We are no longer Connected. Neither are Jonah and me. I’m ... I’m a non now.”
What is he saying? Why is he saying this? “This isn’t funny, Kel—”
“Breathe, Chloe,” Jonah is saying to me, but I don’t see him. I only see Kellan right now, gorgeous, wonderful, strong Kellan Whitecomb who came for me and died for me and now is saying he’s no longer an Emotional because I ruined him yet again.
I’ve lost my Connection. Years of fervent wishing I wasn’t constrained by Fate’s choice mean nothing as I struggle to find the tug that tells me he’s here. Jonah’s—yes. It’s sharp and clear. But Kellan’s? Why can’t I feel it?
He blurs in and out of focus. The muscles in my body tense. My world turns pinhole small as I focus down, down to his face. I’m frantic to find that thread that ties us together, if only to prove him a liar. Kellan Whitecomb is an Emotional. He is the twin of an Emotional, born to Magical parents. He is cursed with two Connections. He is not a non. He is not even a Métis. He’s wrong. He’s just ... things are fuzzy right now. I brought him back, yes, but I brought him back.
I had to have.
“Jonah, please,” Kellan is saying, and then my husband leaves and Kellan is standing in front of me, and he’s saying, he’s saying as he pulls me into his arms, “It’s okay, Chloe. It’s okay.”
Why do people keep saying this to me? Why does everyone automatically say when the shittiest things in life happen, it’s okay? Because it’s not okay. How can it be okay when he’s right? And why is he comforting me? I should be comforting him. I am not the one whose existence has been destroyed because a wildcard Creator couldn’t get it right.
Here in his arms, I’m forced to admit I no longer feel the sharp tug of Connection between us. It no longer exists.
Like so many times in the past, I tell him I’m sorry. But now that he can’t feel me, he’ll never know just how much because words are meaningless to the remorse that crowds my soul. So I just hold him and hold him and say it until I no longer think either of us assigns meaning to those pitiful words anymore.