From Darkness (Hearts & Arrows Book 3)(83)

Artemis narrowed her eyes. “We have done no wrong, and you are too quick to anger.”

“Who are you, child of Olympus, to judge the mother of all things?”

“I only observe. My father is the one who passes judgment.”

“Your father,” she hissed, “the son of The Usurper, Kronos, does not judge me. None shall judge me. And when Zeus killed the sky, my love, my Uranus, he stole my life,” she wailed. “He stole my heart, stole all I’d held dear, and I am alone, alone.”

“And perhaps that solitude has edged you to madness.”

“You insult me? You threaten that which I have created, child of Olympus. You plot to murder my children, you who are charged with protecting them! You have lost your way, and you must be stopped.”

The ground before them thundered and rose, cracking and crumbling as the surface mounded. A gigantic claw broke from the ground and then another, and out of the earth rose a scorpion the height of three men, its tail the height of six. It hissed and charged, and the air rang with Gaia’s laughter.

Sirius edged back, barking, teeth snapping as Artemis pulled her bow and nocked an arrow, and Orion stood with his spear at the ready. Gaia was powerful enough that even Artemis was not immune. She could be harmed, but worse, Orion could be killed.

Her heart drummed its warning, and there was nothing to do but fight.

The scorpion skittered around, its long legs puncturing the earth, its eyes hard and shining as it loomed over them. And without warning, its tail flew forward, driving into the ground between them. Rocks and dirt flew as it pulled its stinger out, and it hovered over them like the tip of an arrow.

The feather on her arrow brushed her cheek as she loosed, the arrow puncturing one of its beady eyes. The monster let out a shriek, and Orion’s spear slipped into its maw, lodging in its skull.

The scorpion screamed again—the pitch high enough to rattle Artemis’s head—and crushed the spear in its jaw, unswayed, undeterred. Artemis nocked another arrow and drew her bow as quickly as the beast turned on her.

His stinger came down faster than she could move.

Everything slowed, as if time had all but stopped, as she looked up at the point, at her fate, at the end.

And then everything flew sideways as Orion slammed into her. When she hit the ground, the air blew out of her lungs, leaving them burning and empty, her vision dark and bursting with flashes.

She gasped for air, blinking away stars, and when she could see him, she knew. And nothing would ever, ever be the same.

Crimson blood pooled in the dust beneath him, spreading with each beat of his heart.

“No!” she screamed, rage crawling up her body, up her neck, over her cheeks. She roared, pulling her longsword as she charged the beast, dodging its legs until she stood in the cool of his shadow.

She jumped with her powers at her back, sword raised, sliding the blade between plates of armor with a crunch.

It screeched and stumbled, and she swung her legs, using her weight to drag the sword and open it up. It began to collapse, and she flung herself off and away, barely escaping its massive body as it slammed to the ground with a quake.

She didn’t hear the groans and whines of the creature as it languished, not with every piece of her focused on Orion.

He was still and gray, his hand limp on his stomach, his blood soaking into the thirsty ground with Sirius whimpering next to him. Artemis called his name as she fell to the ground at his side, her hands on his chest, her eyes searching his face, his body, looking for anything, any way to help him, to fix him. And every question, every doubt was banished. Because nothing mattered, nothing but him.

His eyes were on her as he took a labored breath. “There is…no time. Artemis…please…”

“Wait, please,” she begged, her voice unrecognizable. “Please, let me summon Apollo. He can help you. He can save you.”

She tried to pull away, but he reached for her hand.

“No. Do not leave me.” Another breath, this one more ragged. “Please, I must…I want…”

“Anything,” she breathed. “Anything.”

“Kiss me.”

And she did. She pressed her warm lips to his cool ones, her tears sliding down her cheeks and onto his.

When she broke away, she looked into his eyes, eyes she would love until time ceased and the stars were no more.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“As I love you,” she whispered back.

And then he was gone.



That night, when the moon was high, Artemis brought Orion to the top of the large stone over her favorite pond, her Oceanids circling the boulder, their faces turned up to the stars. He had been cleaned and dressed, the flowers laid in his hair, his face soft and calm, hands still at his sides.

She knelt by his side, unable to speak. She cupped her hands over his heart, her tears unending as her palms filled with light, white and cool, brighter and brighter. And then the light consumed him, separated, splitting, hovering over her palm. One by one, she placed them on the tip of an arrow, aimed at the endless sky, and fired toward the horizon, placing him among the stars forever, at the edge of the world where he could always be seen, where she could never forget him.



The wind rushed against Artemis’s cheek, streaking her tears. For so long, for thousands of years since he had died, she’d been adrift, floating through her life with no anchor. Her love for Orion was left loose and flying, the ends never cut or tied, and she longed for purpose, something in which she could put her faith when everything else was undefined.