I waited for the punchline of the joke, but nothing came. The cold chill in his tone made it clear he wasn’t being dramatic either.
“Where would you like to die?” I continued.
“I’m in no position to be picky.” His eyes slid to me. “I’ll gladly accept it anywhere.”
“You’re boring,” I scoffed and kicked at nothing with my shoe. A short snort of laughter escaped him, and warmth bloomed in my chest. It was enough to soften the tension and seriousness in his tone. “Tell me everywhere you’ve lived, and I’ll recommend the best place to go back to and die.”
He shook his head but humoured me, listing five places. My steps slowed until I was staring at him, mouth open.
“What the hell?” I cut in front of him, walking backwards to face him since he would not stop walking. “Those are the exact places my mum and I have lived. I just got chills. We might have run into each other without knowing. What are the odds? It’s a coincidence that we ended up here together again, don’t you think?”
“A big coincidence.” He nodded his head, agreeing in a slightly sarcastic tone before catching my hand and pulling me back to his side. “Now walk properly.”
So I did.
And that walk—strangely—might have been the longest conversation we’d ever had.
Only that it was me mostly doing the talking.
But he was there, and he was listening.
And that was all I needed.
PART TWO
MEMORY OF THE UNDEAD
—Memory is the undead’s last breath, refusing to die—
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SANORA
White.
Dance.
Twirl.
Something on her head.
Teeth—no, a grin.
I jerked my gaze to the side.
The archer!
The air shifted, and I realised with a start that I was back. Back inside the dream.
I scrambled up to my feet just as she stopped dancing, her eyes finding mine before sliding past me to him.
And this time, I saw her face. Not fragments, not flashes, but her whole face. She had the kind of beauty that made my stomach dip, so sharp and perfect it was almostwrong, too much, too...unnatural. She didn’t look human. And maybe she wasn’t, not with the kind of energy radiating off her when she danced.
The archer’s bowstring creaked as he pulled it taut. She didn’t flinch, neither did I. Somehow, I came to an understanding.
She knew he was there, and she knew his aim wasn’t her, but the thing resting on her head.
He loosed the arrow.
