I thumb through the app with a grimace, already knowing what I'm going to find. And there they are: three plausibility warnings flash, angry red alerts scrolling across my screen.
PLAUSIBILITY WARNING: Unauthorized Soul Transit.
PLAUSIBILITY WARNING: Unsanctioned Purification of Uncategorized Souls.
PLAUSIBILITY WARNING: Excess Magic Discharge.
I clear them with a mentalfuck off, swiping through the alerts without reading the details. Like I need their permission to help these souls pass on. If I'd stayed, they wouldn't have needed it. They'd be settled into some safe house somewhere. Eating dinner. Talking. Maybe even laughing for the first time in years.
Unsanctioned, my ass.
Fuck their rules.
The app chimes again, a new notification sliding into view. Then another. And another. New messages flood in, each one carrying the distinct energy signature of its sender.
SANCTION: You're bordering on systemic violation. Reapers were already on their way, @Lyrielle.
Of course. Order's faithful bulldog, always first to bark when someone steps outside the lines. The next message pops up with a sparkle effect, stabbing my eyes with its enthusiasm.
WHIM: Ohh, baby @Lyrielle, keep going. This is delicious. Why aren't we allowed to use emojis? Imagine three fire emojis right here, okay?
WRATH: You're spiraling again. Is it really worth it? You took years to recover last time.
Jack-Eye clears his throat. "Are you okay?"
"Fine. It's just work." Stepping away from the group, I let my thumbs fly across the screen. How long has it been since I entertained them on this thing? Probably when it was first made.
LYRIELLE: If you're not going to help the mortals who keep your pathetic little shrines warm and your worthless names remembered, shut up and enjoy the show, you self-righteous cowards.
I'm not done. My fingers keep moving, venom leaking into each word:
LYRIELLE: Or better yet—do something. But you won't, because Plausibility gives you the perfect excuse to donothing.Fuck all of you and your stupid winged horses.
LYRIELLE: You all feed on worship, and yet leave your people bleeding in the dirt. You're not gods. You'reparasites.
Of course, it doesn't stay silent for long.
SANCTION: This borders on insubordination, Echo Witch. Your status will not shield you from formal repercussions.
WRATH: You're going to trigger another plausibility review. Is that what you want? After last time?
MADNESS: She has a point, though.
TIME: We are bound by Causality. Desire is irrelevant. Even gods have limits. Did we ask for this, @Lyrielle?
I roll my eyes and slam the app closed. My phone screen darkens, but not before I catch the reflection of my own eyes in the glass—slitted and glowing with too much power. I need to rein it in before shit really hits the fan.
If I get hit with a review, I won't be able to do anything for a while. Could be days, could be years, depending on whose stick is up whose ass.
Owen's still watching me, and I snarl until he jerks his eyes away.
He knows what I've done. Angel-blooded always recognize soul work. But he doesn't need to make it obvious. He was flinching every time I so much as breathed earlier, and now he won't stop staring. The more attention brought to my actions, the worse the Plausibility slap will ring.
"I'm hunting down whoever did this," I announce to the group at large. "Come with me or don't, but stay out of the way. I'm taking the car. Walk back if you don't want to follow."
Chapter forty-three
Grace: Domesticity
