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Mine does too.

Because I know how my voice feels when I use it the way the Conclave taught me. Sixteen years of training drilled that power into my throat until I could slip a command inside someone’s head and make obedience feel easier than fighting back.

There’s none of that in what comes out of me now.

No words.

No command.

I close my eyes, shut out Malgrave and the screaming rising from the chasm, and listen for the one sound I could find anywhere now.

Carnage.

His hellfire catches against my voice.

My breath stutters, but I don’t dare stop.

There you are.

I sing again, louder this time, and the note rolls through the chamber until it hits Malgrave’s binding.

Carnage’s hellfire shudders inside it.

Malgrave straightens. “What the hell are you doing?”

Good-fucking-question.

I don’t have an answer, so I give him another note instead.

The reaction is stronger this time. Hellfire surges toward me, red-orange flames stretching across the symbols as though Carnage himself is reaching back. Sentinel’s Grace comes with it, light flashing through the fire, still fused to him even after everything Malgrave has done.

Malgrave swears and slams both hands against the symbols. The power stops so suddenly that the force of it shakes the chamber. “Enough!” Malgrave’s voice is harder now, the calm finally starting to crack. “You have no idea what you’re interfering with!”

Maybe not.

But I know Carnage.

And I know he’s still in there.

I drag in a deeper breath and let my voice climb. The note fills the chamber, stronger than anything I’ve given it yet, and Carnage’s hellfire rips sideways through the binding instead of following the path Malgrave carved toward the chasm. Sentinel’s Grace flashes bright through the middle of it, both powers wrenching toward me hard enough to drag Malgrave forward.

His knee hits the floor as I struggle to keep the note, but I feel him rising from hell to come back.

Holy shit.

Something inside me locks onto that.

I sing harder.

Malgrave’s hands press flat against the floor as he starts throwing everything he has into holding the binding together. The symbols beneath his palms flare red, fighting against the white-gold light bursting between them, but they’re no longer holding steady.

They flicker.

One cuts out.

Another comes back weaker.

A crack splits through the stone between Malgrave’s hands.