Arcana Rising (The Arcana Chronicles #4)(44)

Fauna is duly impressed. The light reflects in her eyes.

He turns to her and brushes his fingers over her cheek.

Are they in love? How does one know? If love has moved them to be so careless, it seems a dangerous emotion.

He leans in, catching her gaze, just before he presses his lips to hers.

I tilt my head, running the pad of my forefinger over my lips. What does kissing feel like? By the sound of her sighs and his groans, it must be heavenly.

For some reason, my last meeting with the Reaper dances in my thoughts. He continues to trail me through this game. Observing, watching, lying in wait, no doubt. Why is his attention so fixed upon me? Because he is Death and I am life?

What would it be like to kiss him? I shiver, and my heart starts racing, which shames me. He is my worst enemy, can kill with his very skin. Despite his godlike looks, he’s a monster who proudly wields his Touch of Death. . . .

Even if he could kiss me, it wouldn’t last long—for I would expel poison through my lips to end him.

Fauna draws back, then she and the Magician sit forehead to forehead, catching their breath.

He says, “I want you to run away with me.”

I roll my eyes. This has gone on long enough. I shall have to kill Fauna and her admirer sooner than I’d anticipated. . . .





I woke with a cry, my eyes darting.

Cyclops was in the bed again. He glanced up, but I couldn’t meet the wolf’s gaze.

Oh, just remembering how I planned to kill your mistress. No big deal. How casual I’d been when deciding to murder a young couple.

They’d had no idea that some evil force plotted to punish them because they’d dared to fall in love—and to want out of the game.

As I lay in the dark centuries later, I couldn’t help drawing parallels to my own life—and to any future I might imagine with Aric.





28


Day 432 A.F.





I’d buried myself in the chronicles, uncovering one secret after another. Shocking, gut-wrenching secrets.

Each day over the past week, I’d headed to Gran’s room to read. Naturally, she wouldn’t allow me to take the book anywhere else. But to guard it when I wasn’t around, she actually . . . slept with it in her bed.

Now I gazed over at her. She’d nodded off again after dinner. She was sleeping more and more, but eating less. While all my injuries had healed, she continued to deteriorate. Yet no matter how much I’d pleaded, she wouldn’t let Paul examine her, insisting she would rally.

Though I no longer believed her, I refused to think about her dying. . . .

When she and I weren’t discussing the book—everything from the section on Minor Arcana to the pros/cons of my last alliances—I read on my own.

I knew more than I’d thought about the players just from my own encounters with them, but the book held so many surprises.

With each one, I would muse, Jack will think this is cool. Then I would remember. He’d been murdered.

Jack and I had marveled at the snow.

The temperature continued to drop. Soon the rain would turn to snow again. I thought I’d lose it then. The tourniquet would snap, my heart would swell, and I’d bleed out in the white.

For now, I would strangle the pain and keep studying my chronicles.

I’d also begun editing and updating the book. I’d added details from my vision-dreams and recorded battles from this game. I’d even illustrated certain plants. The process was slow going, but I didn’t have anything else to do.

Aric avoided me, seeming as if he could barely stand to look at me. We hadn’t spoken since our fight, and I hated how we’d left things.

Did he miss me at all?

I missed him, had begun to dream about him more and more. I missed simply visiting with him—discussing books and playing cards, sharing meals together. When things had been good between us, I’d loved every second with him, panicking whenever he’d ventured out into the dangerous world.

I hadn’t spoken to Lark either. She hunted for Finn—and Richter—with the single-minded focus her card was named for, running Scarface, the falcon, and a team of other creatures ragged out in the Ash. She kept Cyclops on the property as her weapon (though he slept with me), and Maneater remained—because the she-wolf was pregnant.

A lot of creatures were. Lark’s animals were breeding like crazy. . . .

I’d headed down to the river a few times seeking Circe, but she hadn’t answered. Was she avoiding me as well? Too busy replaying my betrayals?

I knew I’d been evil; the chronicles told me I was in good company.

Two games ago, the Emperor had captured me and tortured me for months. He’d burned away my limbs with his lava hands, keeping me weakened until he’d finally taken my head.

Had Sol been about to deliver me to a similar fate?

In another game, Ogen had dunked me in a river, toying with me, robbing me of air. Though I lasted longer than most, I could drown to death. Before he finished me, Circe had pulled him down to the deep.

In this game, Ogen had been afraid of water. Maybe he’d retained some animal memory of Circe’s reach.

In a battle against Joules and Gabriel (allies even then), the Lord of Lightning had blasted my oaks to splinters, then speared me in the heart with one of his javelins. While I’d been stunned, Gabriel had taken to the air, dropping burning oil on me and my plants.