Page 142 of Burn of the Everflame

“Did you ever think of me?” I asked softly. “I thought of you all the time. I wondered who you were. If you wanted me. If you even knew I existed.”

“I thought of you every single day.”

“Because of the curse? Because you wanted my blood so you could be free?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, and some vital piece of me withered away. “But I also wondered . . . would I recognize you, if I saw you again?” His gaze roamed over me, taking me in. “I wondered what your voice sounded like, and whether you were strong. I wondered if you would grow up fawning over my bastard siblings like the other Descended, or if you would be clever enough to see through them.”

“The Kindred will never have my loyalty. Their choices have hurt too many people I love.”

His brows rose at that final word. “And if I do the same? Will you turn on me if I do not spare your Descended friends?”

“Yes,” I said, returning the same blunt honesty he’d given me.

His expression revealed nothing. “My parents believed in peace. Even as their enemies filled our world with blood, they kept believing, right to the very end.” His lips twitched. “Cold is the body buried in the soil of peace.”

“Even cold soil can grow something beautiful and full of life at winter’s end.”

“Indeed.” His smile chilled. “But first, it must be watered in blood.”

His hand rose to my neck, thumb pressed to the place where I’d once worn the mark of his ten-pointed star. His grip was a little too tight, his pressure too firm to be casual. I tried to pull back, but he held me in place.

“I offered you my protection.”

“I don’t need your protection.” My voice softened. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“No. You want to kill me instead.”

His fingers closed around my throat, squeezing hard. He snatched Sorrow’s Edge and held its blade up to my face, all fatherly affection now gone from the icy daggers of his eyes.

“You come to me preaching ‘peace’ and ‘family’ while wielding a sword crafted to take my life?” he roared. “You’re a traitor, just like them.”

“No,” I choked out, gasping for breath through his tightening fingers. “I d-didn’t . . .” My eyes watered as spots filled my vision.

He slightly eased his hold and pressed the sword’s tip to my chin. “Lie to me, and I will carve out your tongue.”

I sucked in air as I frantically cobbled together a careful admission. “The Kindred want you dead. That’s why they gave me that sword. But I don’t serve them. Only I will choose my fate. And I don’t want to kill you.”

I reined my godhood back enough to let his Umbros magic sense the honesty in my words. Nevertheless, he pressed the blade forward. Its point sliced through my lip, sending my blood trickling down its blade.

The moment the dark scarlet drop hit the heartstone, magic exploded around us. My body thrummed with powerful energy drenched in a heavy, soul-aching sorrow. In the distance, the glittering silhouette of a woman appeared, hunched and weeping, arms stretching toward us. As she sobbed, her grief perfumed the air, tart with regret. I had the sense that she mourned a grave mistake, though I wondered if it was casting the spell or stopping short of its lethal end.

“Mother?” Ophiucae let go of me and staggered toward her, eyes wide. “How could you?”

The smallness of his voice tore at me. For all his cruelty and spiteful anger, there was a heart inside his mighty chest, and it was wounded, perhaps beyond repair.

“How could you?” he demanded again, harsher.

Her wails grew louder, but no answer came.

Suddenly, two strong arms wrapped around me from behind, and something warm pressed against my back. Then I was dragging, falling, drifting, screaming no again and again.

I slammed into Luther’s chest, and we fell together to the Fortos soil. Francis was healed and fleeing. My skin was glowing as bright as the moon.

And Sorrow’s Edge was gone.

34

LUTHER