Arcana Rising (The Arcana Chronicles #4)(55)

What I should have said: “You’re about to die, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And in a few short weeks, I’ll be so messed up that I’ll decide to live for more than revenge.”

To tighten my tourniquet, even now. To delay a grief that could bury me. To rise and walk.

I’d thought the sight of snow—and all the emotions it brought—would make me less likely to be with Aric.

Just the opposite; because I could see my future so clearly. If he died before I did, some symbol—like snow—would mark the end of his existence. Later I would experience that waypoint (because everything was connected) and wish to God I’d taken a different path.

Death was inevitable. Why make him wait any longer? In a perfect world, I would’ve taken more time to grieve Jack and get my mind straight.

This world was as far from perfect as it could get.

I decided then that I would map my own journey and mark my own waypoints. The snow would symbolize both the end of one story and the beginning of another.

A new slate. But not a blank one. The red ribbon would be a cherished remembrance, but I wouldn’t keep it with me at all times.

I lay in the snow and lifted my hand to the sky. Flakes landed on my damp face. Each one was a cool kiss good-bye.

_______________





The Hunter


Lying in that bank of snow, I gazed up at the falling flakes. They drifted over my face. Soft, soft. Like Evie’s lips. With effort, I lifted my scarred hand to the sky. I closed my eyes and pretended my Evangeline was caring for me.

J’ai savouré. I savored each cold kiss. . . .





34


The Empress Day 451 A.F.





“You still have only two icons?” Gran murmured as I sat beside her bed.

Over the last week, the snow had melted as if it’d never been—while I remained changed. I’d made a decision that affected my future, and then I’d made preparations.

Soon, I would rise.

“Why haven’t you taken another marking?” she said, her faint voice slurring. “Because your powers are suffering?”

They continued weakening. I had a theory about that, but I pushed it from my mind. “Hey, I brought some pictures with me.” I collected my laptop, then sat beside her on the bed. Though I wanted to learn more from her, I refused to listen when she talked about killing my friends. So I grasped for other subjects.

I opened up the family albums. As I scrolled through them, her eyes appeared dazed, as if she wasn’t seeing the images. Yet then she stared at a large picture of my father.

I said, “I wish I could remember him.”

“David used to carry you around the farm on his shoulders,” she said. “He read to you every night and took you to the river to skip stones. He drove you around to pet every baby animal born in a ten-mile radius. Lambs, kittens, puppies.” She drew a labored breath. “He brought you to the crops and the gardens. Even then, you would pet the bark of an oak and kiss a rose bloom. If the cane was sighing that day, you’d fall asleep in his arms.”

I imagined it all: the sugarcane, the farm, the majestic oaks, the lazy river that always had fish jumping. My roots were there, but I knew I would never go back. Jack’s dream had been to return and rebuild Haven. A dream we’d shared. I would feel like a traitor going home without him. Plus, it’d be too painful. Everything would remind me of the love I’d lost.

“David’s death was so needless,” she said. “Don’t know what he was doing near that cane crusher.”

I snapped my gaze to her. “What do you mean? He disappeared on a fishing trip in the Basin.”

She frowned at me. “He did. Of course.”

Chills crept up my spine. Was she lying? Why would she, unless . . .

No, no. I shook my head hard. She had the same kind of mental fog I had, understandable if she’d had strokes.

With all the double crosses of the game, I was paranoid. She’d loved my mom. Mom had loved my dad. Gran would never hurt him.

“Love of her life, gone forever,” Gran muttered. “Nearly broke your mother. Now you are broken. You’re getting weaker. If you don’t win this game, then my life has meant nothing. Karen’s sacrifice for you will mean nothing. Nothing!” For the hundredth time, she said, “Take out the little Strength Card. The low-hanging fruit.”

My well of patience spat up sand, dry as a bone. I slammed my laptop closed and shot to my feet. “I will never agree with you about the other Arcana here. We should avoid discussing them.”

I searched for another subject, realizing there were none. Every conversation led back to the murder of Aric and my friends.

As if I hadn’t spoken, she said, “Weaker, weaker. Take the icons while you still can. Even Death’s. Seduce him out of his armor, then strike. Use your poison kiss!”

I lost it. “I am not killing Aric. I will never hurt him!”

At last, she seemed to have heard me. Comprehension lit her eyes for the first time in forever. “Dear God . . . you . . . you . . . love that monster.” Her face grew red and blotchy. “You don’t deny it? You will rue it!” She went into a coughing fit. “I-I spent eight years in an institution, caged, trapped—for you! But you refuse to hear me. To see.”