Dark Flame (The Immortals #4)(72)

“Good. I think it’s time.” She smiles. “Would you like company, or would you rather go it alone?”

I glance at the twins, seeing the way they study their feet, the pictures on the walls, the hem of their dresses, anything but me. The last couple attempts to get them to Summerland have failed, and not wanting to risk making them feel badly again, I say, “Um, I think I’ll go it alone, if that’s okay with you.”

Ava looks at me, her gaze holding mine for a moment before she presses her palms together, bows her head, and says, “Have a safe trip, Ever. Godspeed.”

Her words still echoing in my head as I bypass the vast fragrant field and land smack in front of the Great Halls of Learning. Brushing myself off as I rise to my feet, feeling ready, cleansed, totally and completely whole again, and hoping whoever’s in charge of admittance will agree.

Hoping the ever-changing fa?ade will make itself visible to me.

I clamber up the steps, unwilling to waste even a second, unwilling to allow any time for doubt to move in. Gazing up at the grand building before me, the imposing columns, grand sloping roof, and gasping in relief as it begins to shimmer and change. Transforming itself into all of the world’s most beautiful, sacred places, as the doors spring open for me.

I’m in!

I’m back.

Making my way across the shiny marble floors, past the long line of tables and benches that house row after row of spiritual seekers. Each of them hovering over their square crystal tablets, each of them searching for answers. And suddenly, I realize I’m not so different from them, we’re all here for the same reason—we’re all on some kind of quest.

So I close my eyes and think:

First of all, thank you for giving me a second chance and allowing me back. I know I messed up for a while there and got a bit off track, but now that I’ve learned a few things, I promise I won’t mess up again—or at least not like that. But still, the truth is, my quest hasn’t changed. I still need to get that antidote from Roman so that Damen and I can—well—be together. And since Roman is the key—the only one who has access to it, I need to know how to handle him, how to approach him in a way that’ll get me what I need but without—well, without manipulating him or—or casting spells—or getting caught up like that again. So, um, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I need to know how to approach him. I don’t really know where to go from here, and, well, if you could help me with this, provide some kind of clue, show me whatever it is you think I need to know in order to deal with him in just the right way—well, I’d really appreciate it.

I hold my breath, hold perfectly still, aware of a distant whir, a soft, swirly sound whooshing around me, and when I open my eyes, I find myself in a hall. Not the same hall as before with the infinite runner and the hieroglyphic Braille on the wall, this hall is wider, shorter, more like a walkway that takes you to your row of seats in an indoor stadium or concert hall. And when I get there, when I reach the end, I see that I am in a stadium, a sort of indoor coliseum, only in this particular one, there’s only one seat, and as it just so happens, it’s reserved just for me.

I settle in, unfolding the blanket beside me, and placing it onto my lap. Gazing around at the walls, the columns, all of it appearing old, crumbly, as though it was built long ago, back in ancient times, and wondering if I’m expected to do something, make the first move, when a colorful, shimmering hologram appears right before me.

I lean toward it, squinting at an almost hallucinatory image of a family—the mother pale, feverish, flat on her back and wracked with great pain, screaming in agony, begging for God to just take her, not even getting a chance to hold the son she’s just birthed before her wish is granted, she heaves her last breath, and moves on. Her soul traveling upward, onward, as her baby, the tiny, kicking, newly born baby is cleaned and swathed and handed to a father who’s too busy grieving for his dead wife to pay him any notice.

A father who never stops grieving for his wife—and who blames his son for her loss.

A father who turns to drink to numb the pain—and then to violence when that fails to work.

A father who beats his poor young son from the time he’s old enough to crawl, until the day when, in a drunken stupor, he starts a fight with someone much bigger and stronger, a fight he cannot win. His battered, bloodied body, left in an alleyway, beaten beyond repair, but still smiling his last breath, when the sweet release he’s sought all along finally arrives. Leaving behind a hungry, abandoned child that soon becomes a ward of the Church.

A child with smooth olive skin, large blue eyes, and a golden crop of curls that could only belong to Roman.

Could only belong to my nemesis, my enemy, my eternal antagonist whom I can no longer hate. Whom I only feel pity for after watching how, younger than the others and small for his age, he struggles to fit in, to please, to be noticed and loved, only to go from being an overlooked, ignored, and abused son, to everyone’s servant, everyone’s favorite whipping boy.

Even when Damen makes the elixir and urges them all to drink to spare them from the ravages of the Black Plague, Roman is the last to be served. Having completely overlooked him until Drina brought him forward, insisting the last drops be saved for him.

And even though I make myself stay until the end, watching hundreds of years of his growing resentment toward Damen, hundreds of years of his love for Drina being denied again and again, hundreds of years of him becoming so strong, and so accomplished, he can get anything or anyone he wants except the one thing he wants the most—the one thing I robbed him of forever—even though I watch all of that—I didn’t need to.