Chapter 129 The Midnight Fuse
Chapter 129 The Midnight Fuse
The air on the terrace had turned brittle, the kind of cold that seemed to crystallize the very breath in my lungs. I looked at my watch: 11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes left of a year that had tried to dismantle us, and the man who had held the pieces together was still a ghost in the dark.
The estate felt like a stage set for a play I didn't want to perform in. Arthur stood near the stone balustrade, his hand resting on my mother’s shoulder with a proprietary weight that usually irritated me, but tonight it only served as a reminder of the stability I was lacking. Cassandra looked elegant even in her heavy parkas, her eyes scanning the crowd of her children and grandchildren with a fierce, protective pride. Beside them, Helena Vance was a pillar of quiet strength, though I saw her fingers twisting the hem of her cashmere coat every time the wind howled through the skeletal branches of the oaks. Her silence was a mirror of my own; we were both counting the empty spaces in the family portrait.
"Come on, El! You’re missing the best part!" Jace called out, his voice booming with the easy confidence of a man who didn't have to look over his shoulder. He was currently being used as a human jungle gym by little Blake, while Ivy danced around his heavy winter boots with a glowing wand that cast neon streaks against the snow. Naomi stood nearby, laughing as she tried to keep Blake’s knit hat from sliding over his eyes, her face radiant in the firelight.
Nearby, the rest of the Vance clan was in full festive mode, seemingly oblivious to the tight knot forming in my chest. Aaron and Chloe were helping Garret and Skylar set up a final, massive battery of fireworks at the edge of the lawn, their faces flushed deep crimson from the biting cold and the spiced cider. Elias and Simone were huddled together under a heavy wool blanket, Lucian and little Nell tucked between them like small, bundled penguins. To anyone else, it was a picture-perfect holiday. To me, it was a target.
"He’s not coming, is he?" Owen whispered, appearing at my side with a suddenness that made me flinch. He didn't say it to be cruel; he said it because he saw me vibrating with a tension that was starting to look like a panic attack. Owen always had a way of reading the frequency of my anxiety.
"He has ten minutes," I said, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "He promised, Owen. He said he’d be here when the clock struck."
"The roads are ice, Elowen. Even Rhys can’t fight physics. You need to breathe before you pass out."
I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at any of them. Their happiness, their domestic safety, felt like an insult to the vacuum Rhys had left behind. My mind was a carousel of worst-case scenarios: a black SUV skidding off a jagged ravine, a silent confrontation on a dark highway, a phone ringing in a snowbank where no one would ever find it. The more they laughed, the more certain I became that something had finally broken in our favor—or against it.
I watched Grant move through the crowd, ever the dutiful son, passing out champagne flutes that caught the moonlight like shards of diamond. The security detail had pulled back into the deeper shadows of the estate's perimeter, their silhouettes blending into the treeline, giving the family a rare, curated moment of perceived privacy. But the silence from the woods felt heavy, pregnant with the weight of things unsaid.
"I need... I need a drink. Something stronger," I muttered to no one in particular, my throat feeling as though it were lined with sandpaper.
"El, stay out here for the countdown," Grant urged, holding a glass toward me, his brow furrowed in concern. "It's almost time. Don't go inside now."
"I'll be right back. I just need a second to warm up."
I turned away from the laughter and the glowing embers of the fire pit, stepping through the heavy glass sliders into the Great Room. The transition was jarring, a physical blow of silence. The house was cavernous, the air warm and smelling of pine and expensive floor wax. The noise from the terrace was suddenly muffled, sounding like a world away, as if I had stepped into a different dimension where time moved more slowly.
I didn't turn on the lights. The moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows was enough to guide me toward the wet bar in the corner of the den. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, rhythmic thud that made my hands shake as I reached for a crystal decanter. I could feel the sweat cooling on my skin, a slick film of dread that wouldn't wash away.
I stopped, my hand hovering inches from the glass.
Through the massive windows, I could see them. My entire world was gathered on that terrace, framed like a photograph I might never see again. I saw Jace point toward the sky, signaling the kids to get ready for the show. I saw my mother lean her head against Arthur’s shoulder, finally letting her guard down. I saw the Vance children jumping in place, their tiny silhouettes full of life.
Then, the collective rise of their voices drifted through the glass, beginning the ritual.
"Ten!" they shouted, their voices a muffled, ghostly cheer.
I reached for a glass, my fingers brushing the cold crystal, my eyes still fixed on the family I loved.
"Nine!"
The shadows in the corner of the den seemed to shift, deeper and more solid than they should have been. A sudden draft of freezing air hit the back of my neck, though I knew the doors were shut tight. My skin crawled with the primal instinct of a cornered animal.
"Eight!"
I froze. Every muscle in my body locked as the realization hit me: I wasn't alone in the room. The silence wasn't empty; it was occupied.
"Seven!"
The sound was small, but in the vacuum of the silent house, it was deafening. A mechanical, metallic snick. The unmistakable sound of a hammer being drawn back on a handgun, locking into place with lethal, oiled finality.
"Six!"
The cold, unforgiving barrel of the weapon pressed firmly against the base of my skull, pushing my head forward an inch.
"Five!"
"Don't make a sound, Elowen," a voice whispered in my ear, a voice as smooth and cold as the winter ice outside. "Or the fireworks start early, and your family provides the lights."