Echo (34 page)

My hands flopping before me, useless and weak. Wanting so badly to tell Dace that I love him—that I’m sorry to leave him like this.

But the words are soon drowned by a torrent of something metallic and bitter that clogs up my throat.

Blood.

My blood.

And it won’t stop. There’s just so damn much of it.

Raven shrieks.

Coyote yips in unbridled excitement.

Cade shouts in unrestrained victory edged with frustration.

As Dace calls after me, shouting my name over and over again, his voice hoarse, mangled. Though it’s not long before the sound begins to fade, as though it’s being filtered through too many layers to be properly heard—drifting from a place that grows increasingly distant.

My body shivers.

My breath comes in desperate, ragged spasms—and sometimes it doesn’t come at all.

If it wasn’t for these strong arms that hold me, I’d be falling—tumbling to a place from which I’d never return.

If it wasn’t for these strong arms that protect me, Cade would’ve succeeded in stealing my soul.

I want to tell Dace not to worry. Want to tell him about the golden one looking after me—the glowing hands that support me—but the words just won’t come.

Hush
, coos the being as he sweeps a long golden finger over my lips.

But I haven’t spoken. I tried, but I can’t.

Hush your thoughts.

I do. For a while. But then they pipe up again.

Where are we going? Where are you taking me?

Up.

My eyes drift shut. Aware of the light still shining behind them but too tired to keep looking at things I don’t understand. Preferring to immerse myself in this warm, buoyant feeling of comfort and love that he brings.

You must be the sun!
The thought rushes through me—my eyes snap open again. Trying to make out his form, but all I can see is a radiant blur of gold.
I told Dace he was wrong, said there is no sun in the Lowerworld. It’s just some fable Leftfoot told him when he was a kid. But I was wrong, wasn’t I?

Do I look like the sun?

I squint, straining to see that which has so far remained hidden. Gasping in delight when the glow begins to fade just enough to allow the features to sharpen and a face to take shape.

The skin is fair, as though carved from beams of light. The hair so blond and pale, it’s almost as white as the skin. Though the eyes stand in sharp contrast, the irises are an unusual yet beautiful shade of lavender that gaze down at me.

And before I can respond, I
feel
it.

The long slender fingers of death curling around me.

Heralded by the soft whir and hum of my life force quickly draining.

The corporeal flesh and blood part of me swiftly subsiding. Surrendering. Allowing the soul to take over. To carry me ever higher—soar as high as I dare.

The sensation similar to how I felt when I was drowning at the falls. The glowing person similar as well. The same glowing person I once accused of haunting me back in that Moroccan square.

But now I know better.

So you remember?
He tightens his grip when I nod that I do.

Only this time is different.

This is the prophecy come true.

The other side of midnight’s hour strikes a herald thrice rung

Seer, Shadow, Sun—together they come

Sixteen winters hence—the light shall be eclipsed

Leaving darkness to ascend beneath a sky bleeding fire

Only instead of the light being eclipsed, it was me. But at least Dace is safe.

Right?

Right?

You ask too many questions. You must rest. We’ll be there soon.

I close my eyes again, using my last burst of strength for one final request:
Can you please make it snow? Will you do that for them?

Don’t have to
, he tells me.
You’ve already seen to it
.

My lips curl at the sides, my cheeks fall wet with tears, as I fumble for the blood-covered key at my chest and fold my fingers around it.
At least I’ll leave them with that …

My focus narrowing to a point so tiny—no bigger than a molecule. Surprised to find that the molecule is
me—
and that I’m connected to everything.

A cry of anguish sounds in the distance, though I’m sure the cry is not meant for me.

Why would it be?

I’m safe.

Loved.

Surrounded by light as warm and glowing as a kiss.

My heart flutters.

My lungs bubble with breath.

And the next thing I know, I’m crashing through a glorious silken spun web—bursting into a world of bright golden light.

season of miracles

epilogue

Axel

The girl lies bleeding in my arms.

Her brown shiny hair spilling over my shoulder—the pink of her cheeks fading as quickly as the life force within her.

Still, she is beautiful.

Far more beautiful up close.

Inquisitive too.

And though I long to reassure her, it serves no purpose to lie to her.

She teeters on the edge of the abyss. Stands a very good chance of tumbling in.

I press a finger to her lips and urge her toward silence. She can’t afford the luxury of speaking and thinking—can’t afford to expend the much-needed energy.

When her eyes flutter closed, I tighten my hold.

Every inhalation a prayer:
Save her! Spare her!

Every exhalation indulging a long-dormant rage—cursing the lot of them.

She didn’t deserve this.

Never stood a chance against them. And, as it turns out, neither did I. Having failed in my bid to help her—look after her—guide her.

Though it’s not over yet.

I gaze upward, our destination still so far away. And though her heart continues to beat, it seems only to do so in order to pump more blood from her wound.

She’s fading.

There’s no way she’ll make it.

Yet she still summons the strength to ask if it’s snowing—hoping to leave a gift for her friends.

Ready to surrender to death just as soon as I confirm it. A trace of a smile lifting her cheeks as she rolls toward the edge.

And though I know it’s wrong—though I’ve been warned many times before—it doesn’t stop me from cupping her face in my hands and molding my lips tightly to hers.

My silent plea for forgiveness, chased by a single life-restoring breath.

Paloma

“Come to the window,
cariño.
It’s snowing. Looks like Daire has done it after all.”

Chay looks at me, waiting patiently. But when I fail to join him, he crosses the room to the battered old table where I hunch over a book that’s been part of my life for so long, I can no longer remember a time before it.

“What are you looking at?” He rubs a comforting hand over my back.

I nod toward the codex. Robbed of my words along with my breath. Unsure if what I’m seeing is real, or if I’m merely a tired old woman gone suddenly mad. Needing him to confirm either way, and secretly hoping for the latter.

His whispered “My God” providing all the proof that I need to know it’s not me.

His strong arms fold around me, though it’s not enough to buffer me from the truth.

It really is happening.

A long-foretold future has gone into limbo.

The two of us huddle together, gazing upon the ancient tome. Watching as words that have remained there for centuries, slowly lift from the page.

Leaving a large blank space where the prophecy stood.

“What does it mean?” Chay’s haunted eyes search mine.

I pull my red cardigan tightly around me and look toward a window framing a flurry of snow that falls from the sky.

Reluctant to admit I don’t know what it means.

I haven’t a clue.

For the first time in a long time, the answers elude me.

Phyre

We’re more than halfway home when the snow begins to fall.

More than halfway home before my dad decides to acknowledge my presence in his car.

“Is it safe to assume you failed?” he asks in a voice as stern as his face—as stern as the harsh black suit that he wears.

I press my forehead to the window, stare into a wide expanse of night now glinting with white.

“Answer me!” He slams hard on the brakes. Stops the car right in the middle of the road, as though we’re the only ones on it. We are.

I press hard against the door, shoulders cringing inward.
I’m in for it now.

I sneak a hand to my face, erasing the few tears I’ve indulged in before he can see them, knowing that’ll just make it worse.

This is my role. It’s not like I don’t know the part. I’ve been rehearsing since I was a child, since the day he pointed his finger at me, declaring that between me and my sisters, I was his Chosen One.

“Well?” he demands, refusing to move on until I provide the answer he seeks.

“It’s not as easy as you think,” I say, regretting it the instant it’s out. It’s too defensive. Puts the blame more on him than me. I should know better. That sort of tactic never goes over well.

“Is that so?” He shifts in his seat, tugging hard on the cuff of his sleeves in the same way he does every Sunday, right before taking his pulpit. “Then maybe I should bring one of your sisters down here to take care of it for you. Ember or Ashe—which would you prefer?”

“Neither.” The answer comes quickly, without hesitation. Swiveling in my seat until I’m fully facing him, I plead, “Leave them be. I can do it. I
will
do it. I just—”

He stares at me—his eyes dark and merciless.

“I just need a little more time. Two years is a long time to be gone. It’s like starting over. I have to build his trust again. It’s not so easy anymore. He has a girlfriend. Thinks he’s in love. And he is. I’ve seen the way he looks at her.” The truth leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

“Well then, I guess you’ll just have to find a way to distract him, won’t you?”

I swallow hard. Nod in the way he expects. Focusing my attention on the other side of the windshield, watching the snow collect in small scattered mounds on the car’s dirty white hood.

“Time’s running out.” He eases off the brake, allowing for a slow roll down the dirt road.

Time’s always running out. Has been since I was a child.

“It’s already started. The signs are everywhere.”

Everything’s a sign. A piece of toast weirdly burned—a cloud formation that resembles something unholy—a six-toed cat—he sees proclamations of doom wherever he looks
.

“And you know what that means. You know what’s expected of you.”

I nod again.
I’ve spent my entire life training for the Last Days, if only to spare my sisters the task.

“Your sacrifice is a serious one, though it is for the greater good of all. You’ll be hailed as a savior—a saint!” He sings, eyes shining, lost in the false glories of his own weary diatribe. Never stopping to question why I would possibly care how I’m remembered when I’m dead. He turns, focusing hard on my eyes when he says, “Why is your makeup smeared? Were you
crying?
” His voice rises in outrage, prompting me to bring a hand to my face, wiping furiously at my eyelids, my cheeks. “You stop that at once! Do you hear me?”

He shoots me a look of warning, returning his focus to driving only when he’s sure I’m resigned to obedience. Falling into a welcomed silence for the rest of the ride, until he parks before the small, abandoned trailer he’s claimed as our home.

“I want the boy dead by New Year’s Eve,” he says. “Long before the clock strikes twelve. Dace—Cade—doesn’t matter which. For all I can see, they’re one and the same. Ruled by darkness. The absolute manifestation of evil. You do your job right, make the sacrifice you were put on this earth for, and the Last Days will be followed by the Shining Days of Glory I’ve long since prophesized.” He looks in the rearview mirror, adjusts the lapels of his suit—the one he saves for holidays, Sundays, and his most favored apocalyptical occasions.

“Would you look at that?” His voice turns bright and cheery as he glances at his crappy watch with the cheap leather band. “It’s the other side of midnight. Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Merry Christmas,” I repeat, dully.

Slipping free of the car and tipping my face toward the sky. Anointed by the snow left to melt on my cheeks, obscuring the tears I’m forbidden to cry.

Xotichl

“Stop the car!”

Auden slams hard on the brakes, arcs his arm toward me, trying to protect me from crashing into the dashboard, but I’m already out the door.

Already seeking purchase with the slick, wet road, before moving to the center of the street where I turn my face skyward, allowing fat drops of snow to fall onto my cheeks.

“What are you doing? What is she doing?” Lita cries, throwing open her door and racing to catch up with me. Her tone instantly switching from reproach to delight when she says, “No. Freaking. Way!” She runs up beside me, as Auden joins me on my other side. “Time to pay up, Auden!” she cries, voice jubilant as she wraps her arms around me and does a little dance as she carefully spins me. “Looks like Xotichl was right—it really is the season of miracles!” She returns me to Auden, freeing herself to skip up and down the street. Or at least I think that’s what she’s doing judging by the surge in her energy, the swish of her feet.

“Hey, flower, looks like you got your Christmas wish after all. I promise I’ll never doubt you again.” Auden’s lips find mine, his kiss reverent and sweet. Breaking away when he says, “So, why are you crying?”

I burrow deep into his arms, bury my head in the hollow of his neck. Seeking comfort in his strength, his scent—unwilling to speak the words aloud, make them any more real than they are in my head.