Even outdoors, the air is thick with an aether smell that clogs my throat. A bit sickly like the warlock’s scent, but heavy and rich in my nose like Valec’s. Are these the aether signatures of those who live closer to the Shadowborn world than the Order does?

“Bree!” Sel’s voice reaches me from somewhere to the left. It takes a second to find him, but when I do, my heart sinks. He’s in a large rectangular cage to the right of a stage. Metal bars a few inches apart on all sides, tall enough to fit an adult standing up. He’s shaking his palms at his sides, as if trying to cool a burn—the bars must be enchanted the same as the doorknob in Valec’s office. I’m sure he tried to break them as soon as they threw him in there. Even from here, though, I can see that his eyes have cooled to a burnt orange. Valec’s aether treatment must have worked some. I turn away, unable to look any longer without thinking of what he’d done to me. To us.

“Bree!” Alice’s voice draws my attention to the audience. She and William are seated in the center of the crowd, surrounded by people dressed in Valec’s dark red and gold colors. Waitstaff and bartenders, performers and bouncers. Some of whom have made deals with demons, by the looks of the varying densities of aether swirling around their bodies.

Alice’s fists are balled on her lap, and at the moment, I’m grateful that she doesn’t have any powers of her own; whatever happens to me and Sel, Valec doesn’t seem the type to hold on to a regular human who hasn’t offended him. When I look at William, he holds his wrist up at eye level and taps it with a forefinger, a reminder of the time. Is it close to midnight? And even if it were, would I want him to risk using Gawain’s strength?

“Our offender is here. Say hello, everyone, to the lovely Briana.” Valec sweeps forward, holding his left hand out to me.

The crowd releases a mixture of colorful insults and boos, which I can only interpret to mean they know that my “display” earlier with Alonzo was not a planned demonstration. That lie was for the patrons, not the Lounge staff.

The stage shakes when Alonzo steps up on the opposite side, already swollen to ten feet with biceps the size of watermelons. He doesn’t hold a weapon; instead, he pounds a fist into one palm over and over. Each impact sends a ripple of stone over his skin, making him look like a hybrid between a human and a boulder. My mind flashes to the demon that attacked me and Lark. So, that was what Alonzo bargained for: the powers of an uchel.