But not Spencer. Kiera’s words did little to comfort her. This wasn’t right. None of it was.

Stacy imagined Spencer’s smile, the way he looked at Amy, his kindness as he trained them at the gym. The world was a more dismal place already without him. She wondered about his family. She’d never met them, but they must be wonderful people to raise someone like him.

I fucked up.

“Stacy, don’t worry about Amy,” Rowan told her. “I will attend to her health personally.”

“Don’t worry.” They felt like such fragile words. Stacy felt fragile. She slumped against Kiera, weeping uncontrollably. Please, Amy, be okay.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I’ll be home soon, Margie,” John Turnbower, police chief commissioner of New York City stated into the phone. “I’m finishing up a few things at the office. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

He hung up, thinking of the meal waiting for him at home. The office was quiet. No one else but a janitor was on this floor. Occasionally, the shuffling sounds of a mop and broom passed in the hall. A vacuum ran at one point. It all faded into background noise.

His phone buzzed with a message flashing onto his screen. His brows furrowed as he read about a car chase involving a journalist and her date who had gone to Corbinelli’s gala earlier that night. Apparently, both the young woman and her date had been shot. The man died at the hospital, and the woman was in questionable condition.

Corbinelli was behind it. John didn’t know why, but he was certain of that. He felt it in his bones. Police were at the hospital now, investigating as far as they could. They had no one but the hospital staff and witnesses of the chase to question since the journalist was unconscious and the men chasing her had gotten away.

Plenty of car chases and shootings happened in the city. John heard about them every day. Something of this magnitude hadn’t occurred in a long time, though. Usually, these sorts of disturbances were in rundown areas, not near ritzy hotels, against people attending galas.

John glanced at his desk, where an old photograph of himself and Victor from decades ago sat in a frame. He shook his head and sighed. “What did you do now, Vic?”

John thought of his last visit from Lenny Dolos shortly before the lawyer died. Another act of Victor’s, no doubt. Lenny had revealed that Victor was losing it. John thought that was rich coming from Lenny since the lawyer had always been one frayed thread away from snapping.

Maybe Lenny had been onto something, though. John had been stewing on it for weeks now, wondering what he should do.

Can I do a fucking thing? he wondered. My hands are tied. They have been for a long time.

He thought of Margie and his sons. Victor had a wife and son he cared about, too. They’d do anything for their families, regardless of how morally inept it made them. John felt sick. The only proof Lenny had of Victor “losing it” was that the Titan had become hyper-focused since starting a project involving “possession and transformation.” Whatever the fuck that meant. Those were the words the lawyer had used.

John still felt cold to the bone thinking about it. Victor always had his secrets and projects, but something about this felt slimier than the others.

The sharp ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts. “Fuck’s sake. When can I get a moment of peace without someone calling me?”

It was Victor’s name on his screen. John sighed, knowing he had no choice but to answer. He had a strong feeling he was about to be asked to cover something up. He forced a casual tone to his voice. “Hello, Vic. How has your night been going?” He already knew the answer. Not well.

Stacy felt numb as she curled up on the sofa in the living room of the Thorn estate, her fingers tracing a photograph of her, Amy, and Spencer at the gym. A social media influencer had come in one day while they were training and asked to take a picture.

It showed Spencer in the middle, arms flung around both women. In the photo, Stacy was cringing at the sweat he got on her. Amy was beaming. Later, the influencer emailed the photo to Amy, who had printed copies for Stacy and Spencer.

Stacy traced the edges of the photo, eyes red from crying the entire ride home. Rowan had helped her inside, and Kiera insisted she take a bath and change her clothes. Now, she didn’t know where either of them had gone.

The thoughts she had expressed aloud in the van played through her mind. She couldn’t banish them despite her companions insisting it was not her fault.

This is my fault.

I was too focused on revenge.

This would have never happened if…

The thought trailed off as fresh tears flowed. She imagined Amy in the hospital, unconscious and hurting. Did she know Spencer was gone yet?

I shouldn’t have done this.

I’m not cut out for this.

This legacy is too much for me to handle.

She wondered what her mother and father would have done. What would they do now? One answer occurred to her: Don’t let Spencer’s death mean nothing. His sacrifice had to count. Amy’s, too. Stacy resolved to do something, though she didn’t know what.

Soft footsteps alerted her to Rowan’s approach. He entered the living room and sat at the other end of the sofa. Turmoil filled his eyes. “I spoke with Miles. He has ensured everything is secure here. We have all endured a loss tonight but also a victory. I know it weighs on you. I think you should talk about it. Doesn’t have to be with me, but holding it in will do you no good.”

“I want to see Amy. I want to know she’s going to be all right.”

Rowan’s face softened. “Trust me, trust us. I will fight for Amy. She will come home.”

Stacy didn’t know how the dryad planned to do this, but the sincerity in his eyes convinced her. “Are you leaving?”

“Soon. I wanted to show you something first. It might help you find solace while I am away.” He stood and offered his hand.

She took it, wondering what he could show her on the grounds that she hadn’t already seen.

He led her through the back door and into the gardens, where sprites were enjoying the night, unaware of anything bad happening. “I didn’t show you this before because it was in major disrepair. When Miles came here, I asked him to help me. Now, it’s in good enough condition for you to use.”

Her eyes flickered with curiosity, but she didn’t have the strength to ask, so she simply waited. Rowan led her down a narrow path through the trees, leaving the garden behind. Several yards in, a clearing appeared, containing a small stone structure with a steeple.

Stacy shook her head. “Of course. I should have expected this. My mother has secret training spots and libraries. Why not also have a secret chapel?”

“She came here when she was at her lowest. To pray alone, I believe.” Rowan’s eyes glistened. “I was hoping to show it to you later after we cleaned it up more, but given tonight’s events…”

Stacy squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Rowan. This means a lot.”

“Go in, be by yourself. When you are ready, Kiera will have tea for you in the kitchen.”

Stacy stood for a long moment in the clearing after Rowan left, scanning the small stone building. The arched stained glass windows were dark, but she noticed a small, flickering light inside. A candle, she guessed by its size and single flame.

After inhaling a deep breath of the chill night air, she approached the wooden door. The hinges creaked as she swung the door open to reveal a space hardly bigger than her bedroom. The stone walls towered over her. Two benches flanked a narrow walkway with a stone altar at the end. The candle flickered as she stepped in. Magic, of course.

She clutched the locket around her neck. You’re here, Mother, aren’t you? You have been waiting for me.

Her footsteps were soft as she approached the altar. She bent, then lifted her gaze to the stone wall beyond. Several faces were carved into it, none she recognized. The tears flowed freely. “Please, be with Amy. Bring her back to me.” She thought of Spencer and prayed that he was in a better place.

“Give me strength,” she whispered. “Help me lead those who wish to follow me through the darkness. Give me wisdom to balance my quest for justice with mercy.”

Stacy had no idea who she was praying to. Were these carved faces gods? Was she simply imploring her mother’s spirit? She didn’t know, but it felt right. She remained in the small building for a while longer, her knees growing uncomfortable and cold against the stone floor. She didn’t care. She was alive, and so was Amy. Let’s keep it that way, she thought.