“Continue your thought when I return.” He straightened his shoulders and inhaled. Turning to regard his attendant, he said, “I have a little goddess to curse.”
And without a second to waste, he vanished.
Cassian opened his kitchen cabinet,the lemon juice on his fingertips leaving sticky prints along the wood. He clenched his jaw at the mess as he reached inside for a glass.
A percolator stared back at him.
Memories flooded in: mornings in Finnian’s townhome, the crackling of the fire in the stove, the boiling of the water, the bitter aroma of the coffee filling the kitchen, Cassian resting against the edge of the counter, an arm slunk around Finnian’s waist, tucking strands behind his ear.
An ache thrummed in Cassian’s hands, echoing up his arms and into his heart.
The muscles in his chest pulled taut, and he slammed the cabinet door shut.
Cassian slumpedagainst the bench in Finnian’s Grove.
The sunrise spilled over the mountaintops of Moros. Its rays dripped across the tops of the wisteria and the hawthorn, bleeding over the scene in streaks of terra cotta mauve.
He stared vacantly at the patch of white trumpet blossoms.
They are my favorite.
His pulse slowed to the memory. The trickle of the stream, the beam of fireflies, the familiar energy of Finnian’s presence at his side.
They flourish in darkness and I find something poetic about that.
He recalled the twirling moonflower between his long fingers, and how his eyes filled with meaning as he’d said it.
Cassian longed to hear him say it again.
One day.
“Lord Cassian,High God of Death and Curses.”The words left Naia’s mouth in a clumsy, nervous jumble. “Come to me.”
Cassian fastened the button at the center of his suit jacket, unsure of what would be left of him whenone dayarrived.
He materialized in a shadow-lit library, the scent of aged books and seaweed-infused air triggering memories of Finnian. The century-old, stained pages of his grimoire, and how he secretly enjoyed snacking on dried seaweed because it reminded him of home.
Cassian rested his back against one of the shelves, arms crossed.
“I appreciate your time, Lord Cassian.” Naia stood across the room in a blue velvet gown, keeping a safe distance from him.
He could sense her hesitation in her unnerved demeanor. She’d always been that way, timid and too afraid for her own good. The stark opposite of Finnian.
Cassian stared out the window and up at the moon, distorted from the wavelengths of the sea. “Aren’t you supposed to be preparing for your wedding, Little Goddess?”
“That is why I have summoned you.”
He’d been waiting years to hear Naia say these words, expecting that flame of hope to double its size when the time came. But that wasn’t the case.
All he had left within him was a bleak, hollow space filled with a singular desire.
Cassian wanted to call Finnian and tell him their plan was on track. He wanted to hear about Finnian’s side and how things were going—preferably draped in sheets and hidden away from the world. Finnian could tell him about the black market and all its success; how he’d pretended to be after Himura blood for a make-believe revenge scheme against Malik for killing Arran; the plots he had in store to right his wrongs. Cassian wanted to hold him, tell him how much he wished he could’ve been there to comfort him after Eleanor and Isla’s deaths, that they were in his Land and had found peace.
They had over a century of time to catch up on. Cassian just needed to hang on. They were almost at the end.
Then, finally, the weariness in his soul could drain away.
Crimson rained down allaround him. The ground beneath his feet shuddered. He swerved the shards of ice and jagged briars of blood, the child secure in his arms. Trapped on the godsforsaken island.
