He prised her fingers off his arm, even as she tried to squeeze tighter. His hand was so much larger than hers—she’d forgotten that. Memories came back in a rush, thoughts she’d buried beneath work and her own affairs. They were twelve and sneaking into the forrest, fourteen and accidentally unearthing conspiracies and old magic, sixteen and beneath their tree at the lake, laughing as if summer would last forever. 

His voice was cold steel, but Phoebe jut out her chin, nostrils flaring with barely constrained rage. She had never been soft. Did he think he could scare her off with sharp words? She was not some mewling girl, and even with the overstimulation of the rain and the Heat screaming out protest, she refused to let him cow her.

“Oh, yes, total coincidence, it could happen to anyone,” she hissed, sarcasm dripping from every word. He’d brought up her marriage. It was like he had fired a stunner to her chest. Her throat closed up. She hadn’t heard [i]anything[/i] about Justin in the past ten years, but he’d known she’d been married? Her eyes stung, but Phoebe drew a deep breath. No. [i]No[/i] she couldn’t drown in [i]those[/i] memories, not now. [i]Keep it together[/i]. She wanted to hit him. Before she could indulge her wrath, he was marching her away. Phoebe began swearing viciously, fumbling for the wand strapped to her back. She’d put his eye out with a hex, how [i]dare[/i] he--

“Stay there. Do [i]not[/i] come out. I can’t tell you why, but I’m trying to help you. Forget about this encounter.”

“Do not tell me to [i]stay[/i]. I’m not a goddamn crup, you twat—“ Phoebe was interrupted as he turned away from her. Her temper flashed. Oh, what she wouldn’t do to curse his bloody nose off. Sparks flared in her vision, and she could feel her wand humming against her spine, eager to indulge her rage.

Some bland man was looking between them, his lip curling as if he smelled something foul. She was hardly her usual cool professional self, but she was nothing to be [i]sneered[/i] at. Phoebe Lockwood had never been one to tolerate insults. She was about to release a string of insults when Justin pushed her towards the door. Grit could only do so much, and Phoebe stumbled, the world spinning. Her heel caught in the cobblestone, ankle tweaking. It was a wonder that she hadn’t fallen, her hands catching herself on the door. 

They were conversing as if she wasn’t there. Phoebe couldn’t make sense of the world over the blood surging in her veins. She tested her ankle, winced. Heat amplified everything, turned the dial to eleven on every sensation, and she felt the air rush out of her lungs. The joint throbbed, demanded her attention, but she couldn’t recall the spell, couldn’t find it in the mess in her thoughts. Everything was spinning again, but the scorching warmth was no longer quite as pleasant. 

By the time she could make sense of her surroundings again, the bland man had disappeared. Wasting no energy on wondering about him, she pushed forward, favoring her good ankle. Some Healer, she thought derisively, but cut short her self-depreciation. There was still the matter of Ackerman.

He wasn’t far. Phoebe found him leaning against a wall, looking annoyingly striking. Against her will, a twinge of longing shot through her. It was entirely unfair. The universe should have punished him for leaving her so cruelly, should have dealt vengeance for her for all the sleepless nights his leaving had caused. She drew in a shuddering breath, aware for the first time of the chill of the night. She shifted her weight, fingers grasping for her wand. The Hawthorn met her fingers and her skin tightened in response. It slid eagerly into her hand. It was an anchor to reality as colours ran together in the rain. She needed to sit, soon, before everything washed away. But she could hold out a little while longer. She had to. He’d denied her closure for ten years, and she would abide it no longer.

“Ackerman,” it felt strange, using his surname. He’d always been Justin to her, ever since they had met on the train nearly fifteen years ago. “Why—“ she didn’t even know where to start with him. She swallowed. Her mouth had gone curiously dry. Fuck, she could barely see him like this, let alone conduct a proper Lockwood interrogation. When had it gotten so cold? “Where the hell have you been?”