But Finnian’s life was never something Cassian was willing to bet on.
One thing Cassian knew to be true after his five thousand years: he loved Finnian. The young god was in his blood, in the shivers of his soul, and if death was Cassian’s fate, then he was willing to accept it if it meant Finnian lived.
Finnian did not remember him, anyway. He would carry on with his days, and Cassian could hold on to their memories—in death.
“I will get the blood,” he told her. “However, you will not trifle with Finnian’s thread. You will leave him be.” Whirling masses of his divine power surged over his shoulders like amonster in the shadows, sucking the air out of the room. “I have nothing to lose, Ruelle. Set your sights on him, and your beloved Klaus will share his pain, tenfold. My title be damned.”
She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed. “Get me the blood, and I vow to leave Finnian’s Fate untouched.”
Cassian paced downthe throne room as Mavros took long strides beside him to keep up. The crowd of deities parted for him before he fabricated onto the stairs of the dais.
“There is the soul of aboydenin the Land. It goes by Alke.” Cassian stared out at the Errai before him. He could feel the tranquil presence of Nathaira to his right, the comfort of Mavros to his left. Aligning the back wall with three executioners stood Shivani. “Boydensare loyal to their masters, even in death. Alke is somewhere in the Land, but he will remain hidden unless he hears the specific call from Finnian. You will search for him, and you will not stop until he is found.”
As the ruler of the Land, Cassian could sense every footprint, every breath within his realm. This damnboydenseemed to be the one exception to this. Its devotion and power ran deep and had followed it into the afterlife.
Memories surfaced: Cassian cleaning up the small kitchen of Finnian’s townhome, the bird perched on the top of the stove, scurrying down the short hall, disappearing up the chimney. CassianknewFinnian. Right now, Finnian believed his goal was to find Vale and free him. He wouldn’t hide the blood somewhere far away. He’d keep it nearby, in case he needed to use it as a last resort.
Alke was the perfect hiding spot. A place nobody else would think to find.
The chains heldFinnian’s arms up, his body limp against their weight.
An illusion of darkness currently suffocated his consciousness. It smothered any sense of awareness and kept his mind calm. Cassian did not wish to bring any suffering upon him, but he would have to figure out how to revive the lost memories soon.
Moros was connected to Acacius’s realm. He often made rounds in the prison. If he saw Finnian was unharmed, it would look as if Cassian was doing nothing to get the information out of Finnian. Something Acacius would report back to Ruelle.
Cassian knelt and used his handkerchief to wipe the sweat and soot of the Moros air from his brow. Frizzy waves of his hair clung to his neck, his cheeks.
Pain speared through Cassian’s chest as he gently peeled the strands back.
I miss you.
He longed to say the words, to tell this version of Finnian everything of their plan and their relationship. But he knew it wouldn’t work. This Finnian believed the worst in Cassian. He would trust his own false memories over Cassian, regardless of his truth.
Then you must find a way to help me remember us.
Once upon a time, they had truly despised one another. A resentment hid lapses of curiosity, tender twitches of the heart,slowly wearing one another down until that hatred evolved into a maddening love.
That is where their story began.
“I loathe you.” He infused the phrase into his illusion, stitched it into every thought, every spare space of Finnian’s mind. “How much do you loathe me?”
After a year’stime of scouring every inch of the Land, Alke was nowhere to be found.
“He dropped by today,” Shivani informed Cassian.
Cassian paced the pathway in front of the ivy-covered ruins, his throat tight. “Acacius will go back and tell Ruelle I am doing nothing.”
The possibilities of how Ruelle could make Finnian suffer were limitless.
Sweat coated his underarms as he pulled at the tie around his neck.
Being the ruler of Death, he knew what needed to be done.
A sickness roiled in his stomach.
He rotated to face Shivani.
She wore a black robe, the front unzipped and showing her stocky cargo pants and brown top, rusty blood crusted all over the fabric. Specks of it marked her bronze cheeks and the hairline of her tight ponytail. She held the look of a true goddess of slaughter, one who took manic joy in carving skin from bone.
