The silence that followed the static was heavy. It wasn't the empty silence of the Coven House, nor the charged, violent silence of the battlefield. It was the silence of a dam that had developed a hairline fracture, holding back a billion gallons of water by sheer, stubborn luck.
Guilermo had pulled back, just enough to break the magical circuit that threatened to melt our brains, but not enough to break the contact. He was still holding me. My head was resting on his bare chest, my ear pressed against the sternum where his heart was beating a slow, heavy rhythm.
Outside, the storm had settled into a monotonous, drumming downpour. The wind had stopped trying to tear the roof off, leaving us in a damp, dimly lit purgatory.
I traced a scar on his collarbone with my fingertip. It was jag
