Callum tucked one of her hands in the crook of his arm, leading her around the rooftop’s perimeter.
“You must wonder sometimes if it would be easier not to exist,” he commented.
Parisa didn’t answer, staring instead at her feet. Her shoes, fashionable as always, were suede and ruined, soaked through from the rain within minutes. Her hair fell lank over her shoulders in the wet, though of course her beauty was undiminished. He had never seen a woman’s eyes shine so dully and still remain so bright. The haunted look in them heightened her beauty, in his mind. She had never been so lovely, so broken. She made devastation look like riches, like jewels.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked.
She dragged her gaze up, sickened. “Who?”
“Everyone.”
Her eyes shut briefly, and she swayed. Her lips parted to mumble one word.
“Yes.”
Callum stroked the drops from her cheeks, her lips. He pressed a kiss to the furrow between her brows; comforting, tender. Sweet.
“They don’t have to hurt you anymore,” he said, and stepped away, leaving her to stand alone.
She was burning on low now; a simmer that threatened to flicker, a glimmer poised to go out. Funny thing about rain, really, how it always made things seem so dismal. London did that naturally, of its own accord. The foggy grey was so spectacularly akin to loneliness, which Parisa was inescapably awash in. She was so saturated in it that she was the only thing that shone.
Callum watched Parisa turn her head, gazing out over the gardens, taking in the view of the city from where they stood. She was still staring, half-unblinking, when she reached out for the railing, closing her hand around it and settling into the breeze with a shiver. She was so empty now he doubted much would ignite her. Perhaps a spark, but then nothing.
Isolation was a powerful weapon. Forced isolation more so.
He did her the honor of watching, at least, as she climbed onto the railing. To her credit, she took little time to decide; she wasn’t one for second-guessing. He was proud of her, nearly, for being so strong that way, for taking things into her own hands. He kept his gaze on hers, reassuring. He would not be revulsed by her choice.
When she fell, Libby gasped.
Unfortunate, Callum thought internally. He’d forgotten the others were there, being focused instead on Parisa’s emotions, which were engulfing. She was so lovely, her sadness so pure. Her anguish was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted.
“No,” sputtered Libby, half-hysterical. “No, you can’t—what—”
“Why didn’t you stop them?” Nico demanded, rounding on Dalton, who shook his head, numb.
“It hasn’t been an hour,” he said, visibly dumbfounded.
“Are you mad?” Tristan spat, seeming to fumble for words. His eyes, Callum observed, were widest, though it was difficult to tell which emotions were uniquely his. Callum could feel a variety of things from Tristan: sadness, disbelief, and then, at the tail end, distrust.
Ah, he thought with a grimace, and looked up, catching Parisa’s eye as she smiled at him.
“Time to wake up,” she said, and snapped her fingers.
In an instant, they were all back in the painted room, standing still, clothes dry.
As if they had never moved.
“I said no astral planes,” Callum said, irritated, though he had to give her credit. He hadn’t noticed anything; not one detail of the house had been amiss, and the rain had been a nice touch.
“So I should be dead, then?” she scoffed. “And anyway, we weren’t on an astral plane. We were in someone else’s head.”
“Whose?”
“Nico’s,” Parisa said, as Nico blinked, startled. “Sorry,” she added insincerely, turning to him.
Retroactively, Callum realized why she had begun with such a simple question, electing to misdirect him while she addressed Nico within the first minute. Clever girl, he thought grimly.
“You were rather an easy target, Varona. Guileless,” Parisa offered to Nico in explanation. “Fewest impermeable walls.”
“Thank you?” Nico said, though he was staring at her, still unconvinced that she was real.
“That’s an hour,” said Dalton, exhaling with relief as he glanced at his watch. “Though I’m not sure how to declare a winner.”
“Callum, of course,” said Parisa. “He did the most magic, didn’t he? I could hardly even fight back,” she said, turning to him.
“Did I?” he echoed, and watched her mouth twitch.