Blackness welcomed me with open arms.
“Shh. I’ve got you,” a voice said, pulling me out of the darkness. “You don’t have to cry anymore.”
Soft hands gathered me up.
My body throbbed with extreme, pulsating pain. The scent of blood was so strong, like a mist in the air that hit the back of my throat with each inhale.
My head fell back and I opened my eyes.
Sebastian’s face came into focus. He was real and warm and beautiful. His eyes glowed like polished silver. He was standing, holding me in his arms.
“Is this real?” I whispered as he stepped off the throne’s platform.
“Yes.” One word. One menacing, volatile word. His attention was not on me, but somewhere else. He kicked something off the platform. The gold cuff went clattering. I let my head fall against his shoulder as he jumped off the float, landing easily and carrying me effortlessly through the battle.
Turnskins and revenants fell to the ground, their eyes bulging as we passed. They dropped like flies, a monstrous wave parting for Sebastian as though he was Death itself, clearing a path. Surely a dream, I thought, trying to stay conscious.
I saw Michel several feet away. He finished off an enemy I couldn’t see, paused, panting and bloodied, and then stared at Sebastian in shock. His face went several shades lighter.
Sebastian stopped in front of him. “Can you handle the rest?”
Michel nodded mutely, and I wondered why they hell he looked like he’d just seen a ghost. My head lolled to one side and my vision wavered.
Twenty-Seven
I WOKE IN A FAMILIAR BED. SUNLIGHT STREAMED IN FROM AN open door, and in the courtyard beyond birds chirped amid voices and laughter.
I was on the ground floor of Michel’s house in the French Quarter.
There was incredible warmth at my back and the familiar scents of Sebastian’s shampoo, clean skin, and something else—a note of cologne or deodorant, I wasn’t sure. It was a good combination, and I drew it deep into my lungs.
I rolled slowly beneath the covers to rest on my other side, despite the stiff muscles and sore wounds.
Sebastian lay on top of the white duvet, one arm tucked beneath his head. He wore a faded black T-shirt and jeans. His eyes were closed. He had a nice profile—masculine, noble—and it made me think of the stone statue he’d become and how frighteningly beautiful it was.
But that was history, I decided. Ancient history.
He was here now. With me and alive.
His stomach rose and fell with each breath. I wanted to place my palm flat on his abdomen and feel him for myself, to make sure this wasn’t a dream.
Ignoring the hurt in my arm, I reached out and pressed my pointer finger into his shoulder. The skin gave; it was soft.
I did it again, still amazed.
A slow grin tugged at his red lips, making a dimple in his cheek. “Why,” he said in a sleep-deepened voice, keeping his eyes shut, “are you poking me?”
A warm glow washed over me like sunlight after a long winter; I smiled instantly.
I slid my hand under my cheek and just stared. “I’m poking you because you’re real.”
He turned his head, eyes opening. They were different, his eyes—stranger, more intense, a more brilliant silvery gray. And not only his eyes but everything about him was a little more vivid.
We stared at each other for a long moment.
“I am the same,” he said quietly. “In my head and heart, I’m the same.”
Regret came rushing in, for all that had happened to him. The torture, the fact that I’d taken his choice away from him and now he was something he never wanted to be. My eyes stung.
“Don’t do that to yourself, Ari. You did what I would’ve done.” He turned his body toward me. “There’s no way in hell I’d sit there and watch you die, not when I had the means to save you.”
My throat grew so thick I couldn’t talk, couldn’t say I was sorry. He reached over and grabbed my hand, linking his fingers with mine. Seeing them joined, our hands together, resting on his stomach, gave me a deep sense of belonging.
“I’m sorry for a lot of things too,” he said. “That I lost my way, didn’t help you after . . .”
I couldn’t meet his gaze just then. “Why did you . . . why were you there like that in Athena’s garden?”
“I was still . . . changing. If I wasn’t sick, I was blood-drunk. When you saw me, I was probably high as a kite. In the hall when Athena tried to curse me, I was so out of it, hearing things from outside, seeing the smallest details, a million things coming at me at once. It was hard to pay attention.” Red crept up his neck and into his face. “I needed blood constantly,” he said uncomfortably, “and she—”
“Say no more.” Zaria’s servant had provided it, and I didn’t want to hear him say it, or picture it either.
Those moments I wish I could erase forever, but the memories were as clear as day. Zaria biting him. Them together in the garden, Sebastian plucking the guitar, looking straight through me. He probably still needed blood, would forever now. But right then I didn’t want to ask him the details.
“Who’s outside?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Crank, Dub, Henri . . .”
“Violet?”
“Violet. And Pascal, too.”
Thank God. “You know, I’m not sure Violet ever really needed rescuing. There’s something strange about her.” At his arched eyebrow, I laughed. “I mean more so than normal.” I laughed again at the word “normal.” “You know what I mean.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, I do.”
“And my father?”
I was almost afraid of the answer. As one of Athena’s hunters, he had always been an enemy to the Novem, and a small part of me worried the Novem would toss him in prison, or maybe they already had.
“He’s in the garden.”
Relief washed over me. “How did he get here?”
“He followed when I brought you here and then refused to leave.”
I winced. “How did Michel handle that?”
“After your dad camped in the garden the first two nights, my father finally relented and offered him a room. Theron refused, though he has been making use of the kitchen and shower and our family’s healer. . . . Violet and the kids like him.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Four days.”
I rose up, propelled by that shocker, the blade wound in my side reacting badly to the movement. “Four days,” I repeated as pain made me sway.
“Yeah. Our healer has been caring for you. The first two days she kept you in a state of sleep. The last two she has taken care of you. You don’t remember?”
I frowned. Now that I thought about it, I did seem to remember being bandaged, soup running down my chin, being helped to the bathroom. “It’s all blurry,” I finally said.
“Here.” Sebastian piled the pillows behind me. “Sit back.”
I sank against the pillows, waiting for the pain to lessen.
Crank’s face appeared in the open doorway, then disappeared. “Guys! She’s up!”
She was back again, hurrying across the room and crawling onto the bed to hug me tightly. “I knew you’d find Vi. You’re like a legend now.” I laughed, grabbed her cabbie hat, and pulled it over her eyes. She settled on the foot of the bed, sitting cross-legged.
Dub and Henri came in, followed by Violet, who pulled my father along by the hand. He hesitated at the threshold. “It’s okay,” I said. “You can come in.”
Violet released him, and Crank helped her onto the bed. “Where’s Pascal?” I asked.
“In the garden.”
My father hadn’t moved from his spot by the door, and I suspected he was just as nervous as I was.
His cloak was gone, replaced with jeans and a blue oxford shirt rolled to his forearms. Despite the jagged scars that still marred him, he was a handsome guy with strong, classical features and blond hair that was already growing back. He looked like a fierce, battle-scarred warrior. A retired warrior, I thought firmly, surprised by how strongly I felt about that.
He was my father. I wanted him to have peace and happiness, a life without torture, grief, loss. . . . He’d paid his dues.
I realized I was staring and the room had gone quiet. Heat bloomed on my cheeks. “How’s your scratch, Henri?” I asked.
He snorted and leaned against the dresser. “You mean the shotgun blast to my side? It’s wonderful. I have about eighty pellet-size scars to show for it.”
“Dude,” Dub said, plopping down in one of the chairs, “who gets shot with their own gun? Embarrassing, if you ask me.”
Henri gave Dub’s chair a hard shove with his foot. Dub laughed, and Henri rolled his eyes.
“Look at this, Ari.” Dub shook his stomach with his hands. “That’s happiness right there. Michel’s got a kick-ass chef. I’m talking top of the line. I think you should play sick until tomorrow. He’s going to make red velvet cake. Speaking of food . . .” Dub got up and walked to the intercom panel near the door and pressed a button.
“Kitchen,” a heavy French accent said through the speaker.
Dub turned to us, winked, and then leaned close to the panel. “Snow White has risen. I repeat. Snow White has risen.”
“Excusez-moi?” Pause. “Is this you again, Dub?” The irritation in the tone was unmistakable. “Nom de Dieu!” crackled through the speaker, followed by a long string of scolding, unintelligible French words.
“Yeah. Roger that. We’re going to need food. Meats, cheeses, chips, chocolate, sweet tea, beignets. Just bring it all. She’s hungry.”
We all burst out laughing. Even my father cracked a half smile.
After I ate, showered, and had more visitors—Michel and Bran—I finally found myself alone in the courtyard. For exercise, I walked around the rectangular lawn a few times and then into the English-style garden.