Never lovelier, p.34
Never Lovelier, page 34
My blood turns to ice. I lurch for his leg, to shove it back in or snap it together. Something when the ceiling groans. Caves in, reaching for us.
Drops.
I throw myself over Sin as a shield, bracing for impact.
Then the floor gives out below us.
42
Sin
by the hands of a Fury has a certain ring
The curse shreds me from the inside out, smashing bone and constricting veins, refusing any oxygen into my lungs.
It’s worse than I’ve ever felt it.
It wants me dead. Well and truly.
I can’t hold it off any longer.
Agony pulses through my body in excruciating waves, each one more devastating than the last. I collapse to my knees on the cold floor, clutching at my chest as if I can somehow rip the curse out with my bare hands. A scream is trapped in my throat, and I clench my teeth to keep Nat from ever hearing it.
I don’t want her seeing me like this. But there’s no hiding it.
I’m at the end of my leash.
If Theia isn’t a phoenix, then I haven’t been searching for Kadmos’s killer and the curse wants the wasted time back.
It’s willing to accept payment in the form of my agony.
That’s not why it wrings so viciously, crueler than ever before.
The searing sting intensifies, as if a thousand blades are carving intricate patterns into my flesh. Desperate to maintain a semblance of control, I bite down on my lip until the coppery sweet taste of my blood floods my mouth. But it’s a losing battle.
The curse is unyielding, determined to extract its pound of flesh for my failure.
It’s because I knew. Didn’t I?
I pay attention. Always. But with Nat, I let it slip, I ignored the cracks to spend more time with her.
But I knew.
She lied in the first five minutes we met. Badly. Obviously.
This isn’t brandy.
Her little challenge to entice me to drink poison at Oberlin’s.
If I had not been so entranced, impressed and so immediately captivated, I’d have put it together. Furies can lie.
In and out I breathe. Forcing my lungs to work against cracked ribs.
The curse knows I’ve been deceiving myself, and it’s making me pay for every second of willful ignorance. It won’t be satisfied until I’m a broken shell, a cautionary tale for those who dare to defy their fate.
Menace pours from my tattoos.
Natasa lied, yes.
But she also told the truth. I’m going to die.
She’s going to kill me.
And I wouldn’t have done it any other way.
43
Nat
the best way to die? There isn't one, you sadistic fuck
Sometimes when things go to shit, everything slows down, every detail crystallizes into a tableau that imprints on your brain. A memory to haunt you whenever you close your eyes. The taste, the smell, the terror.
I’m not having one of those moments.
One second the ceiling’s collapsing towards us and then suddenly we’re in a freefall.
There’s no time to scream.
No time to think, no time to plunge a knife into the lab coat’s traitoress neck.
I almost don’t recognize I’ve found a handhold until Sin clinches my wiggling legs into the broken wall and my entire body revolts.
The elevator shaft and stairwell are blown, a gaping cylindrical hole cut through the center of the building, and we’re clinging to it’s edge over a six floor drop of crashing metal and cement.
The world spins, a kaleidoscope of chaos as chunks of walls and twisted iron rods hurtle past us.
Flames lick at the crumbling edges of the floor above. The heat sears my skin, but I hardly feel it over the thrall re-surging through my veins. Sweat trickles down my brow, mingling with the dried blood and making a sticky necklace at my throat.
Sin’s hanging in the same shitty position I am, arms over his head, fingers clawing into the rough cement.
Except his legs are struggling to find a foothold. The toes of his boots bounce off dust and cracks. And he’s not flexing. He’s not pulling himself up.
I’ve felt his strength. I know he can. He should be taunting me. Too much blood loss? Say please and I’ll haul you into my arms.
His eyes are closed
His teeth are gritted.
He’s groaning. As if he’s been shot straight through with Artemis’s bow.
I’m weak. The thrall and a streak of Big Mad are the sole reason I haven’t blacked out to induce rapid recovery.
“Hold on.”
“What”—amethyst peeks through wet ashy lashes—“does it look like I’m doing?”
If I had the breath, I’d laugh. “Self-destruct,” I mutter, arms shaking. “What is this a fucking Kim Possible villain? Who”—my fingers slide, and I throw them higher, straining, kicking against rubble—“who even thinks of that?”
“You—” Sin breathes hard, speech strained. “You would.”
It’s not an accusation. It’s pride.
“Now it feels like a must,” I grunt, leaning into the distraction, ignoring the peril. “Just need a giant lair and minions. Then I’m—”
I slip.
Sin’s wide palm slams over mine, catching me, and throwing me higher up the wall at his own expense. He slides down, dangling with four fingers.
I reach for him, to help him return to my level, when his wrist cracks.
Not slides. Not tenses. It cracks. Bone and tissue and tendon tearing.
“Curse,” he mutters almost dismissively as he shuts his eyes. Exhales. “It’s the curse.”
The curse.
His curse. Revenge for the Great King or …
Pain.
The curse that drives him down this path of vengeance, chasing his only lead: a Phoenix.
But now, now I’ve scraped the truth off like a scab and his curse is spilling out. Like Pandora tearing back the lid on that dreadful box I’ve unleashed suffering.
Sin warned me of the consequences.
I didn’t think …
Light pink blood leaks from his ear. His jaw is so tight every tendon in his throat is visible.
This is not pain.
It’s torture. It belongs in Tartarus.
In his arm, another bone fractures. Breaks.
He growls, guttural, homicidal. Falls.
I drop too, panic swallowing any scream as I snatch his wrist and blindly throw out my arm, hair whipping above me. Snapped rebar pierces my palm and my arms lurch in their sockets when I grab on. Two hundred pounds of Demigod drag me down, my hold slipping with each passing second.
A fire roars below us. Acrid smoke fills my lungs, stinging my eyes. I blink away the tears. I can’t let go. Not now.
Sin’s panicked breaths echo in my ears, a staccato rhythm against the creaking of the failing structure.
“Hold on!” I shout. It sounds like begging. The rebar bites into my palm, slick with silver, but I tighten my hold. I won’t let this fucking building beat me.
Sparks rain down like hellish fireflies, igniting pockets of debris. The air undulates with heat, distorting the jagged remnants of walls and support beams. It’s as if we’ve fallen into the depths of Tartarus itself.
Maybe we have.
Maybe this is my penance for lying, for betraying the Erinyes. For not attacking black.
A thunderous crack resounds from above, and I glance up to see a large slab of the ceiling give way. It hurtles at us, and Sin groans, lifting himself to hold me with two hands.
We’re sweaty, bloody, pathetically clutching each other. My nails sink into his flesh, feeling the split bones move as my fingers dig in. “I’ve got you,” I lie.
Voices drift down from above, muffled by the roaring inferno and whine of framework. I strain to make out the words, desperate for any sign of hope amidst this hellish nightmare.
Sin’s hold on me tightens, his nails piercing as another wave of his curse wracks his body.
“They’re coming for us,” I rasp, my voice almost inaudible through the chaos. “Just wait a little longer.”
As the words leave my lips, I realize they’re a hollow promise. The voices above us are too far away, too faint to be our salvation. And that’s only if they’re on our side. What if they’re loyal to Emil? We’d be target practice.
No, we’re on our own, dangling over the abyss with nothing but our own resilience and determination to keep us from plummeting into oblivion.
“We’re.” Sin clenches his teeth, gaze finding me. “Too. Late.”
Tears leak down my cheeks. “Hold on or I will impale you on this rebar.”
“You can’t hold us both.”
It’s the surest way to get me to do something. Clenching tighter, I scrounge the last of my reserves.
“You lied.”
I shouldn’t be able to hear it. Not in that tone, not admonishing, but soft, loving. Like Sin’s honey whisper in my ear, telling me I deserve the sunset, encouraging me to give into him.
Blood stains his mouth. We’re going to die.
I killed him.
“Drop me,” he croaks.
Let go. Persephone said. The guard will betray you.
As much as I betrayed him?
I squeeze tighter, shutting my eyelids to block out the heat and smoke. There has to be a way out of this, some hidden path to safety that I’ve overlooked. My mind races, sifting through the wreckage of my thoughts for anything that might help us escape this fiery tomb.
“Let go, Natasa.”
“You told me you were hard to kill. Start acting like it,” I hiss, fury mounting in my chest. Firming my grip on the rebar, I wrench with all my strength. We don’t move. Panic sets in. “Fight Sin.”
Don’t walk to your death. Not again.
“Fight.” Fight for this, for us.
A faint cool breeze puffs up my back. “You can’t hold us both, love.” His tone is so serene, so soft.
Mine is scathing. “I’m a Fury.”
“No,” he says, the first touch of bite entering his words, the first spark of disobedience in those purple eyes. “You’re more.”
I am.
I’m Erinyes. But I’m also a killer. A friend. A widow and a lover.
Sin’s bloody fingers wrap around my wrist.
Hot tears stretch down my face. Yes. Fight.
Then he crushes my fingers. It’s reflex—like releasing my sword to hurl my shield—my fingers unlatch.
He lets go.
For the first time in my life, I’m not fast enough.
I lose him.
44
Nat
not like that
The guard will betray you .
It’s not the betrayal I expected.
It hurts more.
Losing sight of Sin as he falls to oblivion.
The ring slipping off his fingers, digging into my palm.
I thought he’d stop Lesenia from taking me. Thought he might leave me bleeding on Emil’s floor. Or sink all six of his knives into my stomach when he learned Theia isn’t a Phoenix.
I could survive those.
My palm is raw on the rebar, and I grind harder into it. Panting.
I told him to hold on.
Indignation and despair surge through me, the thrall struggling under the rising fury, the adrenaline. It churns within me like molten steel, the last wave of my energy forcing me to survive.
It takes control of me. And without the burden of a Blackguard dangling below me, I’m up and flat on the cracked concrete in seconds. Heaving, sobbing. Smoke and embers swirling in a dizzying vortex, a wall of smoke around me.
Through it, the tip of a Katana touches my forehead.
A figure emerges.
No lab coat. No fatigues. No smile.
Deep green leathers and armor, double swords crossed at her back, Glocks secured on each thigh, a yellow blonde strand escapes her cowl and smudged makeup streaks her face.
Black aura billows over her. Asphalt black, dark and dull, beaten down.
The thrall weeps across me like an egg yolk poured down my back. Attack.
In ash and cinder and soot, I press my forehead into the blade and limp upright, hands roaring with pain, body screaming, every part of me worn out.
I lock eyes with the warrior, resolute, daring her to swing without saying anything. The thrall writhes in my bones, anxious for release.
Sin’s ring burrows deeper into my hand and a hollowness sweeps through me, a wrath like I’ve never felt.
The Katana lowers, and the warrior removes her cowl to reveal small features and eyes as blue as Hades’s fire. “I am not your enemy.” The words are soft, but sure. “I’m here to help you.”
The fight leaves me like a bad punch, the thrall escaping with it. I hunch over, hot tears racing down my cheeks.
Over her shoulder, the blonde calls to another, “I found one.”
“You’re safe now,” the female informs me, fluidly sheathing her Katana. “I’m Kleio, commander of Vinia’s Queensguard. We’ve liberated the building. Come, I’ll show you to the other survivors.”
Safe. Liberated. Survivors.
Exactly what I wanted. And yet, I feel hollow.
Kleio extends a slender arm to help me over the cracked floor and instead of hissing that I’m more than capable, I take it. A bleakness spills through my bloodstream, scratchy and heavy as sand. A bleakness that multiplies tenfold when I realize I don’t to be rescued if it’s at Sin’s expense.
“Are you hurt?”
Kleio’s question is such a simple thing, but it carries so much weight.
I don’t know how to answer. It doesn’t feel like hurt. Despite the ichor sliding down my fingers and the new skin on my throat. Nothing hurts.
I’m numb.
The commander doesn’t wait for my answer. She leads me through the rubble-strewn floor, over fallen ceiling panels, frayed wires. Bodies disappearing in wide crimson pools. I take them in without feeling anything, slowly piecing together that the gunshots near the cells were the Queensguard.
If I’d been patient, they’d have found us. Set the creatures free without tipping off the building’s self destruct. Sin would be fine.
Instead, we’re tiptoeing through ruins. The banks opulent facade is reduced to ruptured marble and busted concrete. Tendrils of smoke curl from piles of smoldering debris, carrying the acrid scent of burning flesh.
Kleio and her two lieutenants, a warrior with a wicked undercut named Lydia and a tall, svelte male named Leto, escort me through the wreckage, their forms navigating the obstacles with catlike grace.
The stairs and exits were blown in the explosion, so Lydia directs me to a hole in the building’s side. A ladder bridge spans a narrow alley between the bank and the multi-level parking structure next door. She instructs me to hold with two hands. It’s slow, my body is shutting down, soreness invading, but I make it across, Leto grabbing my hand when I almost fall.
Evening is here.
The air is sticky and slow from all day sun as daylight dims to amber.
In the parking garage, we go down flight after flight to the ground level.
I feel drugged. The footsteps don’t register, the empty parking stalls, the long dusty sunrays.
I’m numb to everything but the ring in my hand. I feel it’s presence like it’s trying to meld into my bone.
He betrayed me.
I try again and again to be mad.
I’m so tired. I want to sleep.
I want to crawl into bed and sleep on his pillow. I want his smell back.
At the far end of the garage, a ragged group of survivors huddles together, their faces carved with fear and exhaustion.
Some are clad in tattered finery, remnants of their former lives as prized possessions. Others wear the simple garb of servants, their callused hands and weary expressions telling stories of hardship. Most, more than I want to see, wear white hospital gowns, as if they were in and out of experiments.
Murmurs of gratitude and disbelief stir through them. Some embrace each other, tears streaming down their cheeks.
Kleio voices something like rest or worry not. Reminds me that I’m safe, but I can’t make sense of it.
The last ten minutes cycle through my head.
I lied to him. Cursed him and then I dropped him.
He’s seen me now.
Seen the evil I’m capable of. Sees what I never showed to Evan. The part of me I hid and buried, and tried to resist. What I failed to beat.
What I unleashed for Theia.
I stand there, dazed and disoriented, regarding the huddled masses. I will myself to be happy that these females are free. End up clinging to a single ember of contentedness.
And then, like moonlight in darkness, I spot her.
Sitting on a bench of peeling blue paint, her delicate frame draped in a frayed silk dress that still manages to glitter after weeks. Her once-lustrous black hair is now matted and disheveled, but her eyes—those radiant, soulful eyes—shine with an unwavering spirit that even the horrors of captivity could not extinguish.
Theia.
Relief swamps me, temporarily dulling the ache in my body.
And I decide I’d do it all again.
The biggest secret of Theia was never what creature she was. It was the slick black aura wrapped tightly around her.
Our gazes lock and the realm fades away, leaving only the two of us suspended in a bubble of breathless recognition.
I’m moving without realizing it. My legs yanking me towards her.
Theia rises to meet me, her steps tentative at first, growing bolder as we get closer. Tears glisten in her eyes. A trembling smile tugs at her lips.
I haul her into me, squeezing, sobbing.
Her arms wrap around me, and she laughs. “I knew you would find me.”
I lift her off the ground, tears flying down my cheeks.
“I knew it,” she whispers, voice breaking. “I told them.”
