Where were her gods when her mother drowned at sea? Where were her gods when Tova was dragged to prison, or when Will had fallen to his knees?
She’d kill them all.
Across from her, that dark outline of a figure stepped closer, their hand beckoning.
Raven hair. Pale skin. Blue eyes.
Aya raised her knife higher, the flash of its blade catching her eye. ‘Revenge is waiting,’ something hissed.
But she tilted her head, her gaze fixed on her blade. It tugged at something in the back of her mind, something that checked her anger, as if stuck between an inhale and an exhale.
Warm fingers trailing down the bare skin of her back.
A flash of a sly grin.
No, the voice hissed.
But that tug was there inside her, more insistent this time. Aya stepped away from the veil, her gaze locked on that whittling knife.
No matter how far the fall, he’d said.
She took another step back. Somewhere, that voice that had been calling out to her was raging at her to finish the task. But she could hardly hear it. Because it was his voice beside her now, the words like a whispered lullaby against her ear.
No matter how far the fall.
Only she could stop this, the Vaguer had said.
No matter how far the fall.
It was the last thing she heard before she plunged the blade into her own chest.
66
The pain was blinding, almost enough to make Aya slip back into the dark depths that held her moments before. It was easy there. Peaceful.
But then the memories started. Her mother. The veil. Will. She forced her eyes open with a grunt, the bright light of the desert searing them badly enough that she groaned. Aya pushed herself up with trembling arms, just enough to take in her surroundings.
Nothing but sand and dunes for miles.
No oasis.
No Vaguer.
She couldn’t be surprised that they’d left her for dead in the desert. Not after what the relic had shown of her soul.
Your true nature always decides. You cannot escape what you were destined to be.
Aya glanced down at her chest. They hadn’t bothered to remove the knife. A lucky thing. If they had, she’d be dead. She’d missed her heart – her lungs too, if her steady breath was any indication.
Amazing that in her terror, she’d still managed to be precise.
She hadn’t been sure it would work. Hadn’t been sure that the knife would be enough to relieve her from the visions. She didn’t want to contemplate what had inspired her to do it; that the dark ritual of Evie’s parents had planted a seed that she desperately grasped to try to shake herself from the thrall in which the power held her.
And if it hadn’t worked … then she’d chosen her sacrifice.
She would rather die than lose herself to darkness.
Too late. I chose too late.
