Art’s POV
The containment box sits in the center of the kitchen table. It’s lead-lined, heavy, and borrowed from Rowan’s personal stock. Inside, the black crystal rests on a bed of sterile gauze. It looks like a piece of coal that forgot how to burn.
Naomi wipes her hands on a rag, her movements sharp and frustrated. She’s been running tests for three hours. The apartment smells like ozone and stale coffee.
“It’s not emitting,” she says, snapping the lid of her meter shut. “No radiation. No magical resonance. It’s inert.”
I look at the box. “Then it’s dead.”
“No.” She shakes her head, rubbing her temples. “Dead things don’t feel like this. It’s not broadcasting, Art. But it’s not empty, either.”
She taps the side of the lead box. “It’s like a phone line with the receiver left off the
