Page 158 of The Mortal Trials

“Are either of you expecting visitors?” Abuela carefully asks.

Cillian locks eyes with me and then shakes his head.

No one ever comes here. It’s too remote.

Abuela tells us to stay in the kitchen. It’s her door and she’ll be the one to answer it.

My heart pounds as her footsteps trail away, her skirt swishing as she approaches her colorful door. The shade of bright green is her favorite, because it matches the resplendent quetzals she loves so much.

My palms turn cold and begin to sweat. As does my forehead.

I can’t get a deep breath. Only shallow sips.

It’s probably nothing.

It has to be nothing.

“Cal?” Cillian tosses the silver robes over the back of his chair and hurries to me, holding my biceps. “Do you need to sit down?”

There’s a roaring in my ears so loud I barely hear Abuela when she calls my name, turning to find me with worried eyes. She’s wringing her hands again. Something is wrong and I know what it is…

My vision darkens at the edges.

No.

Not again.

I can’t do it.

I won’t survive it.

“Callalie?” Cillian gingerly says.

Blinking until my sight returns, I tell my brother, “I’m fine.”

I am absolutely not fine.

I count to three before pulling away from Cillian.

My mechanical knee grinds as I walk toward the door and whomever waits outside it. I take my steps with what’s left of me, the knee I was born with watery and weak.

Cillian stays by my side as I go to the door.

Abuela’s thin lips are pursed. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she openly scowls at my visitor. She finally turns to face me. Tears streak down her cheeks before her attention slides back to the person – soldier – waiting at ease at the bottom of her steps.

I see his black kern uniform first. Then the silver embellishments of Morrigan’s infantry. Lastly, I look into the face I regret ever memorizing.

Niall’s stare retreats, as if he might find the desert easier to survive than my glare.

“What do you want?’ I snap.

He wipes sweat from his brow before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a piece of parchment. It’s sealed with a thumbprint-size oval of sable wax bearing Morrigan’s crow, deeming it an official correspondence from the goddess who’s claimed me wholly, even though my blood is only half hers.

There’s only one reason Morrigan would send him.

Niall is the only one who knows where to find me.

Am I being recalled or dismissed? The thought spins through my mind as I stare at the missive.