The Dark Calling (The Arcana Chronicles #5)(70)

It made the pain cut deeper.

Finally, I’d been unable to stand it any longer . . . .

“Must you carry on with this charade?”

“Charade? Oh, Aric, if only it were.”

“Why do you continue to call? You’re giving me clues about your location, which makes Fauna’s job easier. Be on the lookout for giant predators.”

“You won’t tell her where I am.”

“Will I not?” I asked, begrudgingly amused.

“You want to claim my icon yourself.”

True, I thought, but I said, “Care to bet your life on that, beautiful?”

Silence for several seconds. Then: “There’s no reaching you, is there? I can’t goad you into coming after me. I can’t make you remember what we had. And we can’t take on you and all the others to mount a rescue.” Before she abruptly hung up, she said, “I have all the information I need to make a decision.”

What decision? Again and again, I’d turned those words over in my head.

The Archangel rose. “’Tis exceedingly hot in here.” As he headed toward one of the windows, my gaze fell on his molting wings.

When inside, he folded them up, but his wingspan was mind-boggling. They seemed to grow with each hearty meal he enjoyed, the bullet holes healing with new feathers.

Like him, I was becoming stronger. Perhaps all the deaths across the land fueled my own transformation. Soon my power and speed would be unmatched among the Arcana.

When the Archangel opened the window, chill air entered. I drew in a cleansing breath, even as I regretted the waste of precious heat. Both he and Paul kept their rooms like saunas. When I’d said something to Paul, he’d reminded me that we no longer had to hoard our resources for a fictitious child and superfluous Arcana like the Empress.

The Archangel turned back, muttering, “Better.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than a gust blew in and sent the cards on my desk flying.

I stared at the disarray, my thoughts veering in strange directions. An Arcana had allowed in the frigid cold, displacing all the cards—as if this very room were Tar Ro, an arena manipulated by a mysterious entity. Like the gods, we controlled the weather, the play of the cards. We wreaked havoc on them.

My suspicion that the earth was a tilted stage had strengthened.

With surprising insight, the Archangel said, “So too do the gods play with us. I sense their return.”

“I as well,” I said, recalling the tumultuous night when I’d claimed the Empress as my own. So what would that mean for Arcana?

Paul gazed from me to the Archangel. He had read enough of the chronicles to follow along.

Only one card remained on my desk. The Empress. I snatched it up, hatred and lust warring inside me. I crumpled her card and threw it into the fireplace. Flames licked the image, immolating her.

Suddenly I sensed we were being watched. Had Fauna dispatched some creature to spy on us? Doubtful; she slept all day, hay in her unkempt hair.

No, this was another Arcana. I mentally murmured, You. I always know your unblinking gaze.

—Tredici. Tredici.— a familiar voice echoed in my mind. Tredici, the Fool’s name for me, meant thirteen in Italian. He materialized by my side. Or a projection of him did. He wore earmuffs, a thick jacket, and fingerless gloves.

From Gabe and Paul’s lack of reaction, I gathered they couldn’t see or hear him.

I rose to pour a vodka, giving them my back as I collected my thoughts. What do you want? How had the Empress ever viewed this player as anything but malevolent?

—You must see the future too, Tredici.—

My sight dimmed, replaced by a scene from some distance away. Salt water. Waves. Rain. Cold.

I relaxed into the vision, easing the way for the Fool’s delivery. I saw the Empress. Her face was pale, her wet hair whipping in the wind.

A mob of humans with bayonets were yelling, “Plank, plank, plank!”

She gazed up at me with a stricken expression and whispered, “Jack.”

I felt a jolt, then realized I must be experiencing this vision through Deveaux’s perspective, his senses becoming mine, his thoughts known to me.

The humans were forcing him and the Empress out onto a walkway of some sort that was positioned above a vast trench.

The men wielded bayonets. Deveaux tried to evade their strikes, to ward them off, but he could only hold out for so long.

Completely immersed, I let the scene unspool in my mind.





“You can’t take another stab!” Evie inched back, yanking on my hand. We were already past the midpoint.

When the plank teetered like a seesaw, I said, “Just hang on, you! Not another step.” Braving the bayonets, I leaned forward, but I waged a losing battle. The plank joggled again. “Putain!” We were going into the drink!

We started sliding backward, were looking up at the opposite end of the plank, about to be dumped. I clenched her hand hard.

She cried, “Jack!”

The plank pivoted; we plummeted—

Weightless.

Stomach lurching. Wind whipping over us. Falling, falling. FALLING . . .

COLD. We hurtled into the deep, the temperature snatching the breath from my lungs. I snatched Evie, and we struggled to the surface. We breached a wave, gasping for air.

Shock had me by the throat. Towering waves battered us, but we clung together.