The Dark Calling (The Arcana Chronicles #5)(12)

He didn’t answer, his gaze growing unfocused.

“Aric?”

“My apologies. These errant thoughts keep hitting me. Strange.” Seeming to shake himself, he murmured, “You were saying?”

“Forget it.” I glanced at the folder again. The picture of me was pre-Flash. “How did you know I was the Empress in this game?”

“Your home has always been called Haven. You were the right age. I sensed it.”

Just as I sensed Paul was a dangerous liar. I flipped through more pages, coming across aerial maps of the sugar cane farm. Aric had known right where I was. “You could have struck before the Flash.”

Nod. “I think some part of me hoped you would perish.”

“And spare you the confusion? What a great foundation we have.” I quashed the urge to cheerily ask him, What color shall we paint the nursery, darling? “And now I’m carrying the spawn of a bloodthirsty Empress and Death—seasoned with zombie juice. What could possibly go wrong?”

Aric shook his head. “Do you not understand how monumental this is? We are changing history. You wanted to end the game; this child might do just that. Our destiny feels fated. It feels right.”

“For you!” I cried, slamming the folder onto his desk. “Of course it does to you. You’re the Grim Reaper, and all of a sudden you believe you’re going to have a line to come after you. But I’m the one bearing this burden. The real reason you hesitate to punish Paul is because of what he’s done for you. Because of his actions, you’re getting what you want most—a child.”

Bitter laugh. “Do you think that’s what I want most?”

“Then what?”

Aric stood. “I wonder if you know me at all.”

I watched him walk out the door. He’d left me with my folder. Part of me clamored to read the rest of the contents, but I feared to as well.

Our strained relationship couldn’t take the weight of a feather right now.





5


Day 528 A.F.





I tossed and turned in bed as the blizzard-without-end raged on. When I finally drifted off to sleep, a nightmare scene arose.





Richter and Zara, the deadly Fortune Card, were in a locked warehouse full of their ragtag prisoners—men, a few children, and even a couple of women. Ropes bound their captives’ wrists.

Zara reached out a bare hand to touch one man’s face. As soon as their skin made contact, her eyes and veins turned purple. She’d just stolen his luck!

She moved on to the man beside him, and then the next. She even knelt to brush one child’s tears away.

When she’d harvested from all of them, Richter motioned for her to leave. They shared a look as he locked the door behind them.

Outside, Zara handed him a knife. As she gazed on with sick fascination, Richter sliced his palm. Blood welled, beginning to glow and heat, turning into lava. It pooled out of his skin, spreading over the ground, nearing the warehouse.

Then he began to slowly cook those people . . . .





I shot upright, their agonized screams still ringing in my ears.

Had that been a dream, or had Matthew sent me a vision of Zara building up her luck reserves through survivors?

I rubbed my eyes, glancing at Aric’s empty side of the bed. He rarely slept these days. With a troubled sigh, I rose, anxiety like a noose around my neck.

Despite this, my stomach growled. I glared at my belly, then bundled up in a thick robe and slippers. Maybe if I could keep some food down, it’d help me sleep. As tension mounted within the castle, so had my nausea.

I started for the kitchen, my breaths beginning to smoke in the stairwell. The winter storm continued, the temperature dropping. Paul remained.

After mulling over what Gran had said and written in her last days, I’d grown more convinced that he’d harmed her. Yet I’d lived under the same roof with her killer for an additional two weeks.

I passed a frosted window and glowered at the falling snow. Nature wasn’t cooperating with me—or Circe. Whenever she slept, ice would creep over the moat. To break up the frozen surface, she would strain her powers.

We often heard ice cracking down at the river shore, then the SLOSH as a huge block plunged into the water.

If the weather didn’t change, she waged a losing battle. When I’d spoken to her a couple of days ago, she’d sounded increasingly weak and harried: “The ice choking my rivers is like giant earmuffs. The thicker the ice, the more isolated I feel.” She’d added in a whisper, “My coffin of ice . . .”

Downstairs, I shuffled through the withered leaves covering the floor. All my vines had died. My powers showed no signs of rebounding; my red witch seemed to be taking a long winter’s nap.

The light in the kitchen was on. I wasn’t the only one making a food run at this late hour. Could it be Aric?

He and I seemed to have reached a standstill. When he wasn’t training to an obsessive degree, he was staring out the window, awaiting Kentarch’s arrival.

I’d once felt like the castle of lost time was a powder keg. Now it seemed to be a warhead. Just when I was ready to go nuclear on Aric, he would come to bed and we’d lose ourselves in sex. He was gentle, even worshipful.

Last night, I’d again tried to reach him.