Finally, after what feels like hours, his hands slide away from my face.
My skin feels cold and exposed where his fingers were, like a bandage was ripped off a wound that hadn’t finished healing. At the same time, I feel lighter. It’s like he took some of the weight with him when he pulled away.
When I open my eyes, his pupils are blown wide, and his lips are parted. He’s watching me like he’s waiting for me to regret letting him in, but I don’t regret it. That’s the strangest part. Ilet him see the most pathetic, desperate parts of my soul, and I don’t feel ashamed.
“What did you find?” I ask, forcing steadiness into my tone that I don’t feel.
“Your suspicions were correct. They shouldn’t have been, but they were.” He leans back in his chair and runs both hands through his windswept hair, his eyes locked on mine. “Your memories have been altered.”
18
AVERY
“Altered how?”I ask, barely able to breathe.
“Someone with powerful compulsion magic has been inside your head.” He meets my eyes, and there’s a weight in his gaze that makes my stomach turn. “They’ve been leaving gaps behind, smoothing the edges so well that I’m surprised you realized the memories were missing.”
I shake my head, unable to process what he’s saying. “That’s impossible. Witches can’t compel other witches.”
“I know what I saw,” he says, steadier and more certain than he’s been all night. “The work is subtle. Elegant, even. Whoever did this is extremely skilled.”
“Who are they?” The words come out sharp, anger brewing in my chest, and he flinches back as if I physically hurt him. “You’re on the Council. You have to know who can do this.”
“I don’t.” He leans forward, like he’s desperate to get through to me again. “But I’ll find out. For you, I’ll find out.”
His words should soothe me. Instead, I press my hand to my chest, to the empty space where the emberlink used to burn.
Violated.
That’s the word for what I’m feeling. Because someone reached into my head and changed my memories. They took a part of me, and I don’t even know what that part was.
“Can you restore what was taken?” I ask.
“Maybe.” He watches me carefully, as if it pains him to share his own limitations. “Memory restoration is delicate work.”
“Try.” I lean forward, my hands gripping my knees. “Please. I need to know what they took.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he nods and reaches for my face again.
“This might hurt,” he warns, like he’s giving me a chance to change my mind.
“I trust you.” The words come out automatically, and his hands stop, his whole body going rigid.
He glances down at his lap, then returns his focus to me. “No one’s said that to me in a very long time,” he says, his eyes soft and pleading, as if he’s taking down walls and praying it won’t ruin him. “I’m not sure I remember what to do with it.”
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I reach up and cover his hand with mine, moving his fingers back to my temple.
“Start here,” I say quietly. “And help me find what they took from me.”
A breath shudders out of him as his fingers curl against my skin, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
Then the tenderness in his expression hardens into focus, and the man who couldn’t meet my eyes a moment ago is gone, replaced by the Council’s youngest memory specialist who carries eight centuries of borrowed darkness and uses it to help people like me.
My eyes flutter closed, and the warmth returns, but this time it’s sharper and more focused.
He’s not just exploring anymore. He’s digging with enough force that pain lances through my temples. It’s not unbearable, but it’s enough to make me gasp.
“Breathe through it,” he says, tight with concentration. “I found a fragment. Stay with me.”