Everlasting (The Immortals #6)(44)

Not with the sky darkening in a way that instantly erases the horizon.

The line between heaven and earth, water and air, up and down, suddenly blurred. Catching us in a swirling, whirling surge of rogue waves, each one bigger than the one that came before, causing the river to expand and surge, to ripple and roar, until al we can do is hang on to each other, to keep from going overboard, capsizing into the water.

The sky cracking open with a rumble of thunder so loud, we seek shelter in the only place left to us—

each other. The two of us trembling under a cloudburst of rain—an unrelenting monsoon—as great bolts of lightning strike down al around.

“Concentrate!” I cry, eyes squeezed shut against the downpour, my lips at his ear. “This is part of the test, hang on to the past, refuse to forget, no matter how scary it gets!”

Not quite sure where that came from, but again, sensing it to be true. Knowing firsthand the mighty power of fear, having been ruled by it before. It’s the opposite of faith.

The opposite of trusting in the universe.

The opposite of believing in one’s higher self. Fear leaves you sweaty and shaky and insecure enough to question everything you know to be true. Fear makes you turn your back on what matters most.

Resulting in rash decisions, false moves, and later, the unrelenting burden of regret. And if Damen and I are to get through this, move forward on our path, we’l have to beat this river and overcome this storm by doing whatever it takes to block it al out. The waters continue to churn and dip as the boat creaks and tilts in a terrifying way. Damen and I huddle together, clinging to our memories, clinging to each other, as a bolt of lightning burns up the bow, cracks it in half, and al ows a torrent of water to gush in.

Causing the bottom to fal out from the weight of it, as the river rises to swal ow us whole.

The two of us reaching, grasping, fighting for our lives, fighting to hang on to each other—but it’s no use.

Our skin is too wet, too slippery, too slick to grab hold of.

And though I try to keep my eye on Damen, try to determine the direction from which he cal s out my name, it’s too dark, too confusing, I’ve no sense of time or place, no sense of up or down—and the next thing I know, I’m sinking.

It’s over.

Too late.

The river has claimed me.





chapter twenty-three


I’m gagging.

Gagging on mud, and muck, and total y icky bottom-of-the-river sludge. Something hard and metal ic clanging against my upper molars and floating on my tongue—something I’m determined to rid myself of.

I push up onto my elbows, and then onto my knees. Balanced on al fours, I spit onto the ground, scoop a finger around the inside of my mouth, and rid it of rocks and debris along with a strange medal ion that pops out and dangles before me—

hanging from a brown leather cord I wear at my neck. I lean back on my heels, pinching the piece between my forefinger and thumb as I peer at a smal silver circle of a snake swal owing its own tail. Thinking it curious, more than a little interesting, but having no idea where it came from.

No idea why I find myself wearing it.

No idea what it could possibly mean.

I fal back in exhaustion, close my eyes against the sun. At first enjoying the feel of it, the way it dries my clothes and warms my skin, but it’s not long before the pleasure’s diminished by rays so intense they leave me sweaty and breathless and suddenly overcome with a deep parching thirst that has me scrambling back toward the river, hoping to drink, only to find the river is gone. Replaced by a landscape of sand, a multitude of cacti, and two blazing suns overhead emitting dual sets of harsh, unforgiving, searing hot rays.

My skin begins to blister and burn as my lips crack and bleed, and with no shelter to be found, and too weakened by my thirst to go searching for one, I’m left with no choice but to curl my body into a bal . Bowing my head until my chin is tucked tightly to my knees, my hair hanging down before me, hoping it wil shield me, only to end up sacrificing the back of my neck in order to spare my face.

Think. I squinch my eyes tightly, try to center myself, try to concentrate.

Think, I scold. Remember.

But the heat’s so intense it’s impossible to focus on anything but my scalding skin and unquenched raging thirst.

I yank my sleeves down, down past my wrists and over my hands, al the way down to my fingertips. Trying not to cry out when the cotton rubs against the blisters, splitting them open and al owing the juice from the wounds to sizzle right there on my flesh. Working past the pain, I shove them deep into my pockets, attempting to make myself smal er, less of a target, trying to hide from the heat, but it’s no use. With dueling suns, one at my front, one at my back, there is no escaping their wrath.

My fingers squirm deep, and then deeper stil . Ultimately coming across something slick and hard with rough edges—a stone of some kind.

A stone I cannot remember.

I work my way along the sides, along the cool smooth surface, knowing I need to think, to concentrate,

to

remember… something… but

having no idea what that something might be.

I turn the stone over. Explore each side, again and again, until a flicker of light plays on the underside of my crusted, shuttered lids. A flash of color, a myriad of varying hues, creeping into my vision—my inner vision—accompanied by a string of words meant to prod me, nudge me, insistently swirling through me, demanding my notice—though I’ve no idea what they mean.