“The cause of all your problems?” I repeat. I take a step forward to make this point loud and clear, looking at all the faces in this room. “Does anyone here seriously believe all the problems with legacies and humans started with me, a twenty-three-year-old you never even heard of until six months ago? Did you approve of the way the Legacy Council and Immortal Quintet ran things, treating legacies like second-class citizens who didn’t deserve a place in this world unless they were willing to lay down their lives at the Divide the second they graduated?”
A lot of the Reformists are shaking their head, proving my point. Even the legacies sitting near Amelia frown, paying more attention.
Amelia folds her arms, looking away. “You could at least apologize.”
“You could choke on a bag of dicks,” Baelfire grumbles, earning snickers from nearby legacies.
I shrug one shoulder, still addressing the room and not her directly. “Blame me for the Upheaval all you want, but this world was a shitstorm well before I came along. Humans in the Nether deserved a shot at freedom, so I took that shot, and I would take it again. I won’t apologize for something I’m not sorry for. I’m only here to find out who’s joining the final attack on the Nether, and who’s out. This meeting is happening because this is where the cowards need to leave us. Trust me, there’s a big differencebetween fighting off fiends that stray into the mortal realm and trespassing in the realm of the Undead.”
Reformists exchange glances. Some look uncomfortable, but no one leaves. Even Amelia Lykoudis shuts her mouth and acquiesces.
“Came back from where?” Ross pipes up from where he fidgets in his seat.
“What?”
“You said you came back to reunite with your quintet. If I may ask, my lady, where exactly did you come back from? Was it the Beyond, or…?”
He clearly suspects where I was. Dozens of curious eyes turn back to me.
“Doesn’t matter,” I decide, adjusting my gloves. I’m extremely ready to be done with all this attention and the stupid fucking pounding of my heart.
“Pretty sure it does,” Harlow Carter disagrees loudly. “Some people are still wondering if you’re a demon like those suits in the elite safe haven claimed you are—before you slaughtered all of them. Kinda like a demon would. I mean, how are we supposed to follow you into battle if we don’t even know where you were for the last six months while the world went to shit?”
Pot stirrer.
“Fine. I came back from Paradise,” I admit before quickly turning to take my seat beside Everett again.
Reformists gasp and chatter about that, exchanging newfound shock. Even Brigid Decimus’s eyebrows bounce up before she looks at Baelfire for confirmation. He nods before taking my hand and whispering that I did great. Everett is scowling at the room like he wants to freeze everyone who was doubting me. Crypt stomps out his cigarette as he looks equally irritated.
Meanwhile, Silas is deep in thought as he examines the present ghosts and the legacies as if he’s still scheming something.
Legacies ask questions in quick succession, some standing in their excitement.
“What was Paradise like? Did you meet the gods?”
“How is it possible for you to ascend and then come back? Isn’t that permanent?”
“How can you prove that you’re a demigoddess?”
There are plenty more questions, but I’m distracted when I notice Monica looking sick in her seat on the edge of the room. When more of the legacies stand, talking over each other at me as reactions in the room continue to mount, Monica passes out. One of her quintet members quickly pulls the empath onto his lap, scowling at the rest of the overexcited Reformists like he blames them.
I’ve seen something like that before.
When I was fifteen years old, Amadeus brought me and the few remaining other contenders for becoming histeluminto his private balcony overlooking his arena outside the citadel. He said all his subjects were to observe a special treat. The necromancers dragged a scrawny incubus with shredded wings and a cut-off tail into the arena as the monsters of Amadeus’s court watched on.
Dagon was there, too. He excitedly explained that this incubus had turned out to be an empath—a rare mutation occurring in monsters, legacies, and manifested casters that the Undead absolutely loved to use for their version of amusement.
We were made to watch as other creatures were tortured near the incubus, who suffered all of their pain without a single blow falling on him. Everyone there thought it was fascinating and laughable, even some of the other kids I sat beside. Only Gideon seemed as bothered as I was by the display.
Eventually, the incubus passed out, paralyzed from the sheer magnitude of the emotions he felt from everyone he was exposed to. Dagon called it an empathic overload. Amadeus was very pleased when the incubus didn’t survive it.
“Hellion?” Baelfire whispers, kissing my temple.
I’m in his lap. When did that happen?
With a start, I realize I disassociated at some point while I spaced out thinking about my past life in the Nether. Now, Brigid Decimus has called the room back to order. Reformist leaders are giving detailed reports of the combat zones they’re in charge of, though some of them are still glancing at me curiously. It’s obvious that their unanswered questions will come up again the second they get another chance.
Monica is awake again, looking much better as she listens to the reporting. I don’t know her well, but I can’t fucking imagine what a nightmare it must be to constantly experience so many emotions at once. It’s bad enough having so many of myownemotions, let alone other people’s.
