But there was no flash of light, no feeling of falling or sliding. The jewels glittered in his hands, but they were cold.
Powerless.
“Let me help,” Tamsyn said, resting her hands under his, but he knew it was no use. Whatever had been in Y Seren in the future—in their present—it was gone now.
No, not gone.
Not created yet.
The idea came to Tamsyn at the same time. He could tell from the way her head shot up, her eyes locking on his. “It’s not magic now,” she said. “But something made it magic in our time. Made it powerful. Maybe something that happened tonight.”
His breath was coming fast, and the snow was falling harder now, but Bowen nodded because what she was saying made sense. St. Bugi’s balls, that was it. The thing was just a brooch now, an ostentatious bit of sparkle, but at some point, a witch had made it into a powerful artifact.
Had he been that witch?
Taking a deep breath, Bowen closed his eyes, feeling for his magic, but there was nothing there. It just felt . . . cold.
Empty.
Was this what Declan had felt like when that spell had first taken him? When had he realized how badly it had all gone?
Pushing thoughts of Declan away, Bowen concentrated on Y Seren, willing something, anything, to happen.
“Are you going back to the future?”
Startled, he glanced up and Tamsyn whirled around, looking over her shoulder to see Emerald emerging from the maze, her hood pushed back, her eyes wide and just the littlest bit glassy.
Fucking Fire’s Draught always caught you by surprise the first time.
“That sounds funny,” she went on, stumbling a little as she made her way to them. “‘Back to the future.’”
“Not as funny as it sounds to us hearing you say it,” Tamsyn muttered, almost more to herself, and Emerald frowned in confusion before brushing that away.
“I thought you’d get to go back now that your parents are back together,” she said to Bowen.
“Grandparents—how old do you think I am?” Bowen replied, more than a little offended, but Tamsyn just hit his arm and said, “We did think it was getting them back together that would send us back, yes, but it wasn’t. It’s something to do with this jewel, but that’s not working, either, so you can see where we’re a bit stressed at the moment, Emerald.”
“This bloody ugly brooch?” Emerald asked, stepping forward. She held out her hands, and Bowen handed it to her without thinking. She might as well look at the thing, it wasn’t like there was anything she could—
“Oh! I know what to do!” Emerald cried out, and then took off deeper into the maze at an alarming rate of speed, for a drunken teenager.
For a second, Bowen and Tamsyn were both frozen, kneeling there in the cold grass, stunned into inaction by Emerald’s sudden flight.
And then . . .
“Fuck a duck, the book!” Bowen shouted, and jumped to his feet, hauling Tamsyn up with one hand and tearing off in the direction Emerald had run.
His cloak tangled around his legs, though, and Tamsyn was in heels, both of them making awkward progress as they turned this way and that through the hedges, calling Emerald’s name, listening for her footsteps, but the snow had muffled everything, and the moon wasn’t bright enough.
Bowen slammed into a hedge, cursing as a branch scraped his cheek, then turned, Tamsyn still right behind him, until finally they made another turn, and there she was, Emerald, standing in the middle of an open square in the maze, Y Seren in one hand and that damned booklet in the other.
And she was already saying something.
“Stop!” Bowen shouted.
“I’m helping!” Emerald called back, and the jewel started to glow in her hands.
“Bowen,” Tamsyn gasped, clutching his arm. “Maybe—”
There was a sudden flash of light and a sound like a bomb had just gone off, leaving Bowen’s ears ringing and Tamsyn wincing as she pressed her face against his biceps, her breath heaving in and out of her lungs.
When the light and the ringing had both faded, they looked to the spot where Emerald had been, but there was nothing there except for Y Seren, lying cold and dead on the grass.
“Where did she go?” Tamsyn asked, her voice hoarse, and Bowen shook his head, despair making him nearly sick as he picked up the brooch.
That fucking spellbook. That nonsense written by a charlatan, with just enough real magic to be dangerous.
Declan all over again.
“Emerald!” he called, hoping against hope.
For a moment, all he could hear was the wind, the gentle whisper of snow falling on the hedges, and then, in the distance, a scream.
No.
A wail.
Coming from the house.
