He paces, then walks to a different wall, this one covered in a collection of drawings. “I’ve been thinking about your ability to resurface some of my memories. We’re going up against the gods and elders blind.” He points at one faded drawing. “See this? I don’t recall it being here, which means it was made after my memories were stolen.”
I sweep in front of him and glide my fingers over the temple wall, over a painting depicting a girl with her heart removed.
His voice is a velvety ribbon of darkness as he commands, “Use Cyna’s magic. Access my memories.”
I turn to face him, my back cold against the stone. “Last time you hated that.”
Azkiel presses me against the wall, then lifts my chin with his thumb. “I’m not asking, Poison.”
“For Ari,” I say, then place my hands on his chest, splaying my fingers over his heart. Tendrils of Sight magic leak into him, guiding and transporting me as the bare skin of my back rubs against the wall behind me, over the image carved into stone.
The room transforms, with intricately decorated vases and candles lining the length of the walls. A musty, floral scent permeates the area, and I notice the stone altar, decrepit and cracked just moments ago, now polished, and embellished with various fauna and foliage. Painted symbols from crushed berries decorate the sides, and red silk covers the three stone steps leading up to it.
But before I can hold on to the memory, it falls away. “I can’t.”
He presses harder, his fingertips brushing the curve of my jaw. I can feel him tensing, restraint pulling at every part of him. “Yes, you can. Try again.”
I close my eyes, focusing as he strokes his thumb around my throat, a low growl emitting from his throat.
The claws of my Sight magic sink into him, and he holds me in place as I delve deeper. Unlike last time, however, the memories are longer, the emotions melding with my own until I can’t breathe.
I watch Azkiel through the centuries, with every living thing he tried to touch turning to ash in his hands. His rejection is my own, when he is cast into the mortal world by his family, to wander between life and death. With every thump of his heart, I’m transported into his sadness, gazing as he becomes hardened, vicariously watching the world move on without him while he’s forever alone.
I find a memory, ingrained so deep beneath the scars of his heart I wonder how long it’s been buried. His lips long for another’s, his soul torn when he knows he can never feel her lips again.
Again?
I’m thrust out of him before I can go deeper.
“Enough,” he barks, his voice waning. He stumbles back, catching himself against the side of the altar.
He balls his fist over his chest, his eyes squeezing shut, and I realize I hurt him. I should be glad. I always wanted this. But when I look at him, I only feel sad.
“Don’t pity me, Poison,” he says breathlessly.
“I don’t,” I whisper.
“Good.” He stands straight, then wipes the sweat from his brows. “It will weaken you.”
“You think it’s a weakness?” I ask, my brows furrowing when his expression crumples. “Or do you not believe you deserve it?”
“Do I?” he asks incredulously.
“No.”
“Good. I’d hate to see you soften after you’ve promised me such pain.”
I take a hesitant step forward. “Perhaps pain is easier to accept for people like us.”
Our eyes clash across the room, and before I can say anything else, he turns and walks out.
THIRTY-FOURCalista
“You’re awake,” Drake says when he walks into the chamber. He hands me a goblet and I peer inside. My tongue darts between my dry lips the moment I see the orange inside, thicker than water, but not as heavy as honey. “What is it?”
“Cimicifuga Serrulata Extract.”
I hesitate, lifting it slowly to my lips, then breathe in the cloying scent. The heavy liquid coats my tongue and throat, and as I drain the last few drops, I’m desperate for more. The hydrating and nourishing properties of Cimicifuga Serrulata Extract take little time to replenish my energy. I place the goblet down, then wipe my lips. “Still no sign of Ari?”
He shakes his head, then leans in and whispers, “This is a dead end. They’re not coming. We should leave.”
“No. Azkiel said the sacrifice must take place here.”
His tone deepens with every desperate word. “What if he’s lying just to keep you here, safe and away from them? We must go. He’ll follow once he realizes you’re gone. He still thinks you’re the prophesied one and can awaken the gods.”
My brows knit together when the words leave Drake’s mouth for the first time. He has not pushed me to elaborate about the prophecy or the gods since everything happened. Although, I suppose he doesn’t care. Not with us almost dying every other day. “Why are you so intent on leaving?” I ask. “We’re safer here. Do you want to keep fighting and killing?”
“How many do you suppose are left?”
I shrug. “Eleanore, Rourne, Isolda, Briar, Cordelia and Edwardo are dead. We know Edwardo killed someone, and with you and Ari, that makes three remaining.”
“Or fewer,” he counters. “Alaric stabbed Eleanore. Who knows who else he’s killed?”
I grip the stone ledge of the cracked altar. “Drake,” I say slowly, mulling over my sister’s speech about the gods and her dream. “What if Ari went willingly?”
His eyes widen by a fraction, his breath halting. “No,” he says, averting his gaze from mine. “I don’t think so.”
I swallow hard against a lump forming in my throat, and the room somehow seems colder. Death’s footsteps shuffle from the back of the chamber, his boots rolling over tiny rocks. Drake whips his head around, then glances at me.
