The duel had started quickly. She couldn’t say, later, who had started it, whether it had been the hot-blodded boy or the bitter older gentleman, nor could she say what it was about. Werewolves? Vampires? A law that had just been passed? Not that it mattered because the end result was always going to be the same.

Zin could recall this:

She’d been standing in the middle of the path with Emery on her hip, finding that two men were in a heated argument and blocking her path. Their shouting had drawn the attention of almost everyone around them too, and suddenly people were taking sides and shouting at each other. Rhys had moved through the crowd, his uniform crisp, manners collected, but then again her husband had always had a way of moving through chaos with ease.

Rhys had turned slightly, toward the younger man. A calming hand lifted. He was saying words that Zinnia couldn’t hear. Her heart was beating too loud.

Her hand had curled around the back of Emery’s head, as if her fingers alone could shield her daughter from whatever this was turning into. She had meant to turn back the other way, to take Emery down the lower lawn and away from the noise, but a spell arced wide and singed the path just in front of her feet.

Rhys turned toward the other man, but in doing so he caught sight of her. He probably was going to tell them to leave, that it wasn’t safe here, but he never got the chance to open his mouth.

That was the last expression she saw on him.

He never saw the wand rise.

She saw the flick from somewhere behind him (or maybe it was in front of him?), and the jolt of light that answered it. He turned like he meant to shield her and Emery, even if the spell wasn’t meant for either of them. She saw the impact, the sound of air leaving him at once. His eyes wide, mouth opened like he was going to speak.

Saw him fold.

Saw him fall to the ground, already dead.

Zinnia screamed.

She didn’t remember screaming, or wrapping her arms around her own waist, or how Emery tumbled from her hip into the grass beside her, wailing in confusion.

Someone touched her shoulder. Grabbed her by the waist when she tried to rush toward Rhys.

“No!” She rasped, although she wasn’t sure if she was reacting late to the spelling hitting him or whoever was trying to hold her back.

His body was only a few feet away. That was all. Just a few feet of trampled grass between them. She clawed at the hands around her waist. They were dragging her back. She kicked, flailed. It didn’t matter if she was striking someone respectable, someone with a badge, someone who thought they were doing the right thing or saving her from seeing something she shouldn’t.

Zinnia only knew one truth: Rhys was there, and she wasn’t with him.

She screamed again. It was guttural, low, wrung from a place of grief.

Someone pressed Emery into her arms. Zinnia didn’t realize she’d taken her daughter until she felt the familiar weight of her, her tiny little fists grabbing her dress. Zin clutched her close, burying her face in the curve of Emery’s neck, as if the soft scent of her daughter’s skin might be enough to keep her from breaking entirely.

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