I don’t know how long I lay there in darkness, wrestling with despair and rage and the terrible temptation to simply let it all end. It would be so easy to give up, to close my eyes and let the cold take me, to become just another cautionary tale about those who tried to defy fate and failed.
Slowly, gradually, the fog around me begins to shift and change. The acrid smell of decay fills my nostrils, and I can feel bones poking up from the soil beneath me like accusatory fingers. I’m back in the Plains of the Dead, surrounded by the remnants of warriors who once thought they could change the world and died for their hubris.
I could join them. I could lie here forever among the forgotten dead and let time bury me alongside all the other dreams that never came to fruition. It would be peaceful, in its own way. Final.
“Get up,” I tell myself, and somehow, impossibly, I do.
Even hollowed out by loss, even aching from wounds that may never heal, I force myself to stand. I think of my father, wherever he is, and how he needs me. I think of my mother being dragged away in chains, and whether that vision was truth or possibility, I’ll be damned if I let that be her fate without a fight.
I think of Micah, and the terrible bargain she made, and the hollowness in my chest where she used to be. I need to understand what happened. I need to find out why she thought she had to sacrifice our bond, and maybe, if I’m very lucky, I need to find a way to bring her back to me.
Most of all, I think of Sam and Locke, waiting for me just beyond this cursed place. I think of what we could be to each other, what we will be to each other if I’m brave enough to seize it, if I’m strong enough to fight for the love that’s still within my reach.
I put one foot in front of the other, and then another, walking through the field of bones toward something that might be hope.
The earth splits open directly in front of me with a sound like the world cracking in half.
Skeletal hands erupt from the cursed soil like flowers blooming in fast-forward, dozens of them reaching for me with fingers still adorned with rings and bracers from lives long ended. They wrap around my ankles, my wrists, my waist, holding me absolutely still but somehow not hurting me. Their grip is firm but almost gentle, like they’re trying to comfort rather than restrain.
I should scream. I should struggle and fight and tear myself free, but something tells me that would be the wrong choice. Instead, I stand perfectly still as thorned vines snake upward from the disturbed earth, glowing with faint golden light that pulses like a heartbeat. They move with serpentine grace, coilingthrough the air until one strikes out quick as lightning to pierce the skin beneath my second mark.
The pain is sharp and immediate, burning through me like liquid fire, but I don’t cry out. I welcome it. The vine burns new magic into my skin, and I can feel it changing me on some fundamental level, marking me with power I don’t yet understand.
When the skeletal hands finally release me, I am different. Branded. Burned. Rubbed raw by forces beyond my comprehension, but I’m not broken. I’m not dead. I’m something else entirely, something new and dangerous and absolutely unafraid.
I stumble forward through the parting mist, each step carrying me closer to the edge of this cursed place and back toward the world of the living.
Rue, Locke, and Sam are exactly where I left them, though they look like they’ve aged years in the time I’ve been gone. The moment I cross the threshold back into the realm of the real, Sam rushes forward and I collapse into his arms, unable to hold myself upright for another second. I can’t breathe properly, can’t find words for what I’ve just experienced.
“She’s gone,” I whisper against his chest, the words torn from the deepest part of me.
His arms tighten around me immediately, pulling me closer as if he could shelter me from the entire world through sheer force of will. “Angel. . .” His voice is soft with understanding and sorrow.
Locke’s eyes narrow as he dismounts and comes closer, “Who’s gone?” he demands.
Rue frowns, genuine concern. “Esme, who are you talking about? What happened in there?”
I press my hand to my chest, to the hollow space where warmth used to live, and Sam’s eyes widen with understandingand horror. He knows what it means, can probably sense the severed connection through our own bond.
“Micah,” he says quietly, his voice heavy with the weight of absolute certainty. “Her Tether. It’s broken.”
A shriek tears across the sky above us, high and piercing and filled with malevolent hunger. Then another joins it, and another, until the very air seems to vibrate with their cries. Darkness descends upon the Plains like a living thing, swallowing the last of the dying light and bringing with it the promise of violence.
Shadow wraiths have found us and they’re coming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SAM
The wraiths let out blood-curdling screams behind us, sounds that seems to tear through the very fabric of reality and settle deep in my bones.
“Move!” Locke bellows, his voice cutting through the chaos.
I turn just in time to see their shapes rise out of the mist like a plague of death itself, writhing forms that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. Esme staggers upright, exhausted and weary, blood-streaked, filthy, her clothes torn and hanging in tatters from whatever hell she just endured in that trial. Her eyes are wide and raw with loss, haunted by something I can’t begin to understand, but she doesn’t falter. Despite the tremor in her legs, despite the way her breath comes in sharp, painful gasps, she stands. I am grateful this trial didn’t take her out physically like the other two did. It’s a good indication she’s regaining her powers, I assume, as I jump to my feet, muscles coiled and ready. She stumbles once, catching herself against a gnarled tree trunk, then bolts toward her horse with determination that makes my chest swell with pride.
I’m on her heels in two strides, my longer legs eating up the distance between us. My hands find her waist, and I hoist her upinto the saddle, feeling how light she’s become, how much these trials have taken from her. She grits her teeth and nods once, silent, gripping the reins like they’re the last thread keeping her connected to this world. Her knuckles are white against the leather, and I can see the faint tremor in her hands that she’s trying so hard to hide.
My Angel might be shattered, pieces of her scattered across three brutal trials, but she’s still standing. Still fighting, and it’s the most beautiful and heartbreaking sight I’ve ever witnessed.
