I turned inward, reaching for the two parts of me, desperately trying to fit them together in whatever way they required to create a bridge back home.
Home.I thought of my apartment, small but cozy. With my hand-me-down furniture and row of cheerful little succulents along the windowsill.
Alastor stopped abruptly.
There.I couldn’t say what I did, or how, but suddenly I felt somethingshiftinside me. Suddenly the pain fell away.
I couldn’t help myself. I opened my eyes.
And there, right beside us, was a glowing orb of golden light. Slowly, it spun and stretched, growing larger little by little.
Hurried footsteps crashed through the trees behind us. Alastor twisted around—swinging me with him—and pointed his sword at the huge, approaching form. Somewhere in the other direction, I could hear more of the vulgen. We’d bought ourselves a little time, but they were still in pursuit.
I turned my head back toward the portal. It wasn’t yet big enough for us to jump through. If we couldn’t get through it in time—
“What the hell is going on?” roared a deep, rumbling voice I knew too well.
I jerked my head back around, twisting myself just in time to see the huge figure of Octavian emerge from the trees.
And he lookedfurious.
“What have you done?” he demanded.
I opened my mouth to defend myself—but then I realized his glare was directed at his brother.
“We need to get her out of here,” Alastor said.
“So you sneaked her out of the town without telling me?” Octavian’s eyes flashed brutally as he shook his head. “No, Brother, I know what you’re really doing.”
Alastor’s grip tightened around my waist. His voice was steady but hard as steel as he said. “Oak. Look at me. Rad and I are trying tohelpher.”
“I don’t see Rad anywhere.” Octavian advanced, and for the first time I noticed the way he held his sword—like he was bracing for a fight, like he was ready to cut down his brother if he had too.
“Octavian!” I said desperately. “Wait—he’s telling the truth!”
Octavian’s gaze shifted to my face. He looked so strange in the silvery moonlight—not warm and charming like the man who’d been preening for his admirers in Ring-Around-the-Hill, but almost feral.
“I need to go home,” I said quickly, while I had his attention. “Before anyone else is hurt on my behalf. Look—I’ve just opened a bridge.” A bit awkwardly due to my position, I pointed toward the glowing circle of light behind us, which was now nearly two feet wide.
Alastor stepped aside so his brother had an unobstructed view of the portal. Octavian studied it for a few seconds before turning his attention back to me.
There was no anger in his eyes now. Only betrayal.
Because I didn’t tell him I was going, I realized. It had seemed easier, when we left, to skip the farewell with Octavian, but knowing what I knew about his past—how the love of his life had disappeared without a word, how the sudden, unexpected loss of her had broken him—I saw now how heartless my decision had been. Even if he couldn’t remember Esmerine, Octavian still carried the pain of her deep in his heart, and I’d just gouged that wound wide open again.
“Put me down,” I murmured to Alastor.
Without a word, Alastor gently deposited me on the ground. But he remained stiff, guarded, as if he didn’t quite trust his brother’s next move. Or mine.
In the distance, one of the vulgen let out a keening howl, and my neck prickled. We didn’t have much time.
I stepped over to Octavian as steadily and confidently as I could manage. And then I reached up and gently placed my hand against his cheek.
He flinched, almost as if my touch caused him physical pain, but he didn’t pull away.
“I won’t let anyone else die for me,” I told him firmly. “I need to put myself beyond the Circle’s reach. Now—before anyone else is hurt.”
This, he understood. I saw it in his eyes—saw it slice through the betrayal swirling in those azure depths and cut right down to the core beneath. He understood my pain, my burden. It was the same thing that made him so protective of me, that made him subconsciously hold onto his guilt over Esmerine—the shame that came from being responsible for another’s death. His hero’s heart couldn’t bear it.
