Everlasting (The Immortals #6)(64)

His smile wide, his eyes never once straying from mine as he inserts the fruit between his front teeth, and bites down.





chapter thirty-three


I cling to my branch, not wanting to watch, yet unable to tear my gaze away. Overcome by the shame and humiliation of having been beaten. Knocked sideways by the horrible realization that I’ve failed at the one and only thing I was born to do. My body reduced to a throbbing, bleeding pulp of a mess—my soul mate convinced I’ve abandoned him—as Rafe makes a show of enjoying the fruit. And for what?

What was the point of it al ?

Why fight so hard? Why succeed at each and every step, only to fail at the one thing that counts more than anything else?

This bitter taste of defeat reminding me of what I once said to Damen after I’d confessed the whole horrible story behind my thwarted bout of time travel: Sometimes destiny lies just outside of our reach.

And surprised to find that no longer rings true. My destiny is stil very much attainable.

There’s no way it ends here.

I leap.

Working past the screaming pain in my body—

working past my protesting muscles, my raw and bloody palms. I leap as high as I can, grab hold of the branch just above me, and then the one above that. Swinging like an agile monkey, until I’m just one branch below Misa and Marco, who are now only one branch below Rafe.

And when Rafe surprises us al by leaping from his branch to theirs, I see his face is stil aged, stil marked by time, and yet there’s no denying his glow

—he’s positively radiant—he has an aura that’s beaming—al the proof that I need to know that it worked, his immortality has been reversed. He drops what little remains of the fruit onto Misa’s outstretched palms, then scrambles to the ground, as I swing myself up to where they now stand. I veer toward them. Cringing at the sound of the branch creaking ominously from the stress of our combined weight, though they don’t seem to notice, don’t seem to care. They’re too distracted by the sight of the fruit, and the distant cry of a whooping and hol ering Rafe as he makes his way down the roots.

“Don’t come any closer,” Marco says, taking notice of me.

I freeze. Not because he told me to, but because my eye just caught sight of something unusual, something I never expected to see.

“Stay right where you are.” He glances at Misa, gestures for her to proceed and I watch as she shoves the fruit between her lips, her shiny white teeth tearing into the hard, velvety flesh as she closes her eyes, takes a moment to savor the taste before she hands it to Marco, who looks at me and says, “If I was feeling generous, if I had the slightest bit of concern for you, I’d share this last bite. After al , it appears there’s enough for both of us, wouldn’t you agree?”

I sink my teeth into my lip, hoping he’s too involved in taunting me to pay any notice to the miracle that is occurring just a handful of branches away.

Is it?

Could it actually be?

Should I trust in what my gut is telling me?

Should I trust in something that goes against every myth, every bit of wisdom I’ve ever learned about this tree?

Or shall I tackle Marco right here, right now?

Get at that last bit of fruit while I can, knowing they’re as bloodied, broken, and weakened as I am?

He holds it before him, teasing, mocking, parting his lips in an exaggerated way. And I know it’s time to choose, time to decide between what I’ve been told and what I see happening before me, when he says, “But, as it turns out, I’m not feeling the least bit generous toward you, so I think I’l just take the opportunity to finish this very last bit.”

One step forward, as he shoves the fruit into his mouth.

Another step, closing the gap between us, as he closes his eyes and bites down.

The sight of it blurred by the song of Lotus’s The sight of it blurred by the song of Lotus’s voice in my head when she said:

The tree is evergiving.

I stop. Lose my footing. Find myself spiraling backward, back toward the ground. My fal stopped by a tangle of leaves just a few branches down, as Marco towers above me, makes a show of swal owing, wiping the juice from his chin with his sleeve.

I watch, noting how they’ve transformed much like Rafe did. Though stil aged, their auras glow vibrantly, vividly, making them appear positively luminous as they join hands, and make their way down the tree. Paying me no notice as they pass me along the way, but I no longer care. My attention is claimed by something they’re too shortsighted to see—something that changes everything.

It’s the fruit.

The sheer abundance of fruit.

Turns out the Tree of Life isn’t limited to just one single piece per thousand years as the legend claimed; for every piece that’s plucked, a new one appears in its place.

And suddenly I understand what my instinct was tel ing me—suddenly I know what Lotus meant when she said the tree was evergiving.

Suddenly I know what it means when they say the universe is abundant—that it offers us al that we need—that the only shortages that exist are the ones we create in our minds.

I work my way up, finding my way to the place where the fruit hangs ripe and ful . Then I yank off my bloodied, tattered T-shirt, exposing the equal y bloodied and tattered white cotton tank top beneath, smooth the fabric flat against my lap, and pluck that one lone piece of fruit, place it onto the center, then wait. Hoping I’m not wrong, hoping it real y is what I think, and grinning like crazy when a few minutes later another piece of fruit pops right into its place, and I pluck that one too. Repeating the task over and over until my T-shirt is so ful it can’t hold any more, and I fold the corners, tie ’em al together, and swing it over my shoulder in a makeshift knapsack.