15. The Summoning
15
THE SUMMONING
Cassian
The Past
In all of Cassian’s eternal life, five years had never felt more like a trek across a desert landscape, agonizing over when the end would come in sight. His thirst felt like the sides of his throat had dried together, parched with a self-doubt of how much further the distance would stretch on.
A year to a deity was as fleeting as a day. And yet, each passing one squeezed Cassian’s insides like a fist. An ache tormenting him, each excruciating second.
What was Finnian doing? Did he remain in the cemetery, or had he moved on to another location? Another village perhaps, or a city? Was he well?
Not knowing ate at Cassian little by little. The unknown forced him to bite into his tongue each time Mavros appeared to keep from ordering his attendant to find the answer to these incessant questions.
He’d supplied Mira with a list of souls to match the amount Finnian stole. Five years and that number had climbed up to nearly one thousand.
Over eight hundred souls, so far, had met their end by Malik.
An act of karma for the crimes they’d committed in their mortal lives—killing, raping, raiding homes and lands. Cassian always judged a soul with an open mind. He understood nothing was black and white, but he could not excuse these souls when they had chance after chance at life on Mortal Land.
These tainted souls proved to be ignorant and even disrupted the peace of the Lavender Fields within their first day of arrival.
One fled the Fields and stormed into the Pomegranate Orchard. Their intention was to eat the fruit without Cassian’s permission. The serpents guarding the orchard quickly devoured them.
Another dove into the River of Eden and tried to escape Death. The High God of the River caught them and tossed them back onto dry land. The Errai roaming the Fields restrained them and escorted them to Moros.
Within the jagged mountains and desolated territory were a series of tunnels and multi-story labyrinths. All built around the volcanic fire spitting out a relentless surge from Acacius’s realm of Chaos. Cassian took pride in his design of the hellscape as he made his routine rounds.
A set of executioners flanked him as he strode down the ever-changing corridors. Smoke and ash rippled at his feet, the particles knowing better than to stick to his suit.
The souls who disobeyed Death’s law were sentenced to time in Moros—a grace period Cassian often gave before tossing them into the Serpentine Forest.
He’d relieved Shivani of her duty and took over their torturing. Only a few had a change of heart and graduated from Moros to the Lavender Fields. The executioners distributed the others as meals to the Achlys.
Cassian obeyed Finnian’s wishes and stayed away. It was the best, for both of their sakes, regardless of the feelings that Cassian was now aware he had towards the young god.
Until Cassian got his hands on the Himura demigod’s blood and took care of Ruelle, it was best not to get involved with Finnian. And if he needed another rational excuse, he reminded himself of how he’d formed a bargain with Mira to curse Naia. Something Finnian would unlikely approve of.
Yet, despite these logical reasons, Cassian coasted through his garden in the late hours of the night. He brushed past the night embers and Black Barlow and burgundy hollyhocks, down the rows of lemon trees and the flourishing mint at their roots. Nuzzled in the back, beyond the blossoms and greenery, was vacant land, surrounded by an iron fence.
Cassian sat on a stone bench at the edge of the emptiness and daydreamed of the magical plants that could fill it. With little knowledge of plants and herbs for potion ingredients, he instructed Mavros to gather information.
“Sage, mandrakes, rosemary, valerian,” Nathaira listed off, her tone inquisitive. “Are you positive about this?”
“Certainly.” Cassian stood next to her, looking out at the barren soil. “The basic plants for a mage. And a small stream here.” He pointed ahead, drawing a curved outline in the air with his finger.
He stepped back, assessing which tree would fill the space best. “How about making it flow between a coppice of hawthorn? The blossoms will be a lovely addition, don’t you think?”
Nathaira’s delayed reply made him look back, catching her exchanging a glance with Shivani beside him.
Shivani pursed her lips, which failed to suppress her grin.
“Yes, my lord, right away,” Nathaira said.
He fidgeted with his thumb and index finger inside the pocket of his slacks. “Is there anything else you think would provide usefulness?”
Nathaira’s arms gently rose and her fingers danced in a fluid movement. Tiny green stems budded from the dirt in a neat row along the fence. “Hemlock and passionflower. I also hear buckthorn and monkshood are common ingredients that mages forage.”
Shivani strolled over to the stems curling like fingernails up from the ground and squatted down to ogle at them like a child in awe.
Cassian nodded. “Add that in as well.”
“And what shall we call this area of the garden?” Nathaira’s arms remained lifted as she looked over at him.
His mouth curved up into half a smile. “Finnian’s Grove.”
A scowl burdened Cassian’s lips as his foot touched down on the solid ground of his realm. While he welcomed any excuse to end a Council meeting early, worry dampened the skin of his palms. Acacius had not shown, and when Iliana informed them of the war, his insides kneaded with dread.
“My lord.” Mavros appeared at his side, the gust of his presence rippling through the tall stalks of lavender. He fell into step alongside Cassian.
Fresh spirits backed up along the shallow edge of the River of Souls. They climbed out along the bank, stretching across the field and intertwining with the River of Eden, something that happened when the water’s population grew too dense. Cassian rarely witnessed the sight—except during the grim periods of mass killing within the Mortal Land.
The Errai dotted the bank, guiding souls from the water.
Nathaira was kneeling in front of a group of children, all sniveling and weeping. “You are safe now. No need to cry.” She wiped their damp faces with the back of her fingers.
“I lost my mommy,” a little girl cried, burying her face in her hands. “The boom separated us.”
“How about we go search for her?” Nathaira tucked a strand of the child’s amber hair behind her ear.
She brought her tear-filled eyes up from her palms to the goddess and nodded pitifully.
Nathaira smiled, taking her by the hand. “Let us go.”
Cassian surveyed the number of souls. “Mavros,” he said in a demanding tone.
“The Mortal Land is at war, as you are probably aware of by now,” Mavros explained. “These are all casualties of a recent attack.”
In his five-thousand years, war had become familiar to him. Among gods, mortals, mages. He had grown desensitized to it all. Death was tragic and gory within the art of war, but in the end, death was still death. However, when the waves of war claimed innocent lives—especially children—it triggered a pang in his chest.
“Acacius.” He cursed his little brother’s name. Just as peace was required to exist in the world, so was chaos. Cassian could recall Acacius mentioning at previous Council meetings that Chaos would unfold soon. He now regretted paying little attention when Acacius spoke, too occupied by thoughts of Finnian.
Cassian swallowed the nausea clawing up his throat, his mind already sprinting to problem solve. “I will go assist those at the front gates myself,” he told Mavros. “Assist the Errai here.”
“Understood, my lord.”
Cassian’s eyes flickered around the amassing lump of souls flooding the River. He lifted a hand into his hair, his cheeks going numb as worry split down in his stomach.
The Mortal Land is at war.
“Mavros,” he called out before his attendant vanished. “What is the war over?” He could hear the distinct edge in his voice, feel the trembling of his fingers against his scalp.
“Land,” Mavros said, eyeing him with concern. “Two nations are disputing over land.”
“Where?” Cassian’s hand lowered from his hair, anxiety flooding his system.
“In the western hemisphere.”
Cassian’s heart dropped.
Was Finnian safe? Harmed in any way? He needed to lay eyes on him. See for himself that he was okay. While Finnian was a god and a mage, Cassian had witnessed mortals and the ardor of their greed and violence.
“Where is the young god now?” It came out as a demand, his tone frantic and curt.
“I am not sure, my lord.” Mavros stepped closer, regarding Cassian with a cautious look, as if one wrong word spoken might spook him away. “It seems he’s once again activated some sort of spell, preventing me from locating his whereabouts.”
Of course he had. The fact should not have stung Cassian’s insides, that after their time in Augustus and in the cemetery in Elmwood, the young god had no interest in being found by him.
As much as the idea pained him, he still needed to make sure Finnian was okay. He would find a way even without seeing the young god. He simply needed to ensure the lives of Finnian’s apprentices were not among the souls.
“Eleanor and Isla, the two mages,” he said. “Confirm that no souls by those names have entered the Land because of this war.”
“Right away, my lord.” Mavros nodded once and vanished.
Cassian stared down at the planks of the bridge. Finnian was fine. He had to be. He was meticulous and cunning, always five steps ahead. Surely, he had sensed the war coming and took precautionary measures to protect himself and his apprentices. Worrying was useless until Cassian learned more .
For now, he had no choice but to push Finnian from his thoughts and welcome the horde of new souls to the Land of the Dead.
Cassian strolled through the gates of his garden, a solace in him aching to decompress right outside the spired columns and rigid peaks of his obsidian castle.
With one hand in his pocket, his other held a glass filled to the brim with bourbon. The burn of the liquor drowned the cries stuck in his ears, of the souls falling apart, begging for another chance of life, on the bank of the River, at the threshold of the gates.
I do not wish to die.
Please.
I am not ready for death.
Let me go back.
I want to live.
I must see my husband again. Take me back. My children. Let me go. My mother. I must return. My father. They are waiting.
For hours, Cassian greeted souls at the gates until some of the Errai had returned after guiding them from the Mortal Land.
Once the gate was secure, he assisted the Errai in sorting the souls. They had taken over half to the Grove of Mourning, too scarred by their traumatic deaths to heal properly in the Fields.
Cassian had been relieved to learn no young souls by the names of Eleanor or Isla had entered his Land. He questioned whether Finnian would have turned them into ghouls upon death, but then he remembered Finnian’s words at the cemetery: he didn’t enjoy turning people into ghouls.
Something told Cassian that if his apprentices had died, Finnian would’ve respected their wishes and let them pass on.
He pinned that thought in the forefront of his mind and let it give him the assurance he needed to believe Finnian was okay—wherever he was currently hiding.
Cassian strolled through his grove of lemon trees. The sharp twang in the air filled his lungs. He took a swig of his drink and claimed a seat on the bench overlooking the thicket of black roses climbing along a trellis. The vines strangled a set of ruins.
He lounged back and propped his elbow on the stone bench. After a minute of massaging his temples, he took another gulp of his drink.
The liquor warmed his belly as he peered through the metallic streaks of moonlight glittering on the surface of the stream that winded through the hawthorn.
Augustus slipped into his thoughts. The dirt path outside the small city. Country cottages and livestock housed within a picket fence. A melody of cicadas and the breeze ruffling the leaves like wind chimes. Finnian at his side, pointing out the twinkling specks of fireflies between the trees.
Cassian slouched his head back, exhaustion fraying his mental state. Over the treetops, the luminous orbs of his souls floated across the sky. The view was serene. If only he was not alone.
He lifted his drink to his mouth?—
“Cassian, High God of Death and Curses.”
The rim of the glass paused at his lips.
He sat up, his pulse jumping to the sound of the deep, sweet-toned voice.
“Come to me.”
The summons led him through a veil of magic and dropped him into an alleyway hugged between city buildings. A city he did not recognize. One he had never stepped foot in.
Hooves thudded against the smooth ground, followed by the turning of carriage wheels down the narrow backstreet. And at its dead end, less than a pace away from Cassian, stood Finnian.
It had been five years since he’d last laid eyes on him. Eyes that now devoured the young god, tracking every change to his person. His hair was longer, hitting right above his waist like black silk. His features had lost their roundness. Their edges appeared sharper, more defined than when Cassian had last seen him.
The linen shirt he wore was unbuttoned halfway down his torso. At least his poor fashion sense had not changed.
Cassian’s eyes fell to the gleam of gemstones dangling over the carved surface between his pecs. Three necklaces, each a different crystal.
Finnian crossed his arms as he stared at Cassian with a look of indifference. It didn’t bother Cassian, though. Reserved as Finnian was with his emotions, he had summoned Cassian to him. Proof, regardless of the reason, that he’d been on Finnian’s mind, too.
“Little Nightmare,” Cassian greeted casually, slipping his hands inside his pockets. It took everything in him to ignore the steady thumping of his accelerated heart, and the puddling excitement in his chest. “Glad to see you’ve abandoned the graveyard.”
“I had no choice. Seeing as you relinquished the souls of the corpses buried beneath it.”
“All souls that were living peacefully in my Land until you stole them.”
“I do not wish to fight.” Finnian blew out a breath and dropped his arms. His shoulders relaxed, and he regarded Cassian with a milder look, turning and beckoning him to follow with a wave. “Come with me.”
Cassian stared back at him, skeptical.
Finnian paused in his step, noting Cassian’s hesitation, and gestured to the dark-stained door on the side of the building with a flick of his chin. “This is the back entrance of my home.”
Cassian gazed up at the several-story-high building and its black brick exterior, pretending to take in the structure when he was actually attempting to gauge the situation. Was Finnian’s invite friendly, or a way to lure him into another one of his magical traps?
“There are no surprise sigils awaiting you,” Finnian said with an amusing lilt to his tone.
Cassian dropped his chin, his expression sullen as he nodded and trailed behind him.
He stepped inside a small room and a waft of earthy, botanic scents traveled up his nose. He closed the door behind him as Finnian swiveled a hand in the air. The scattered candles lit and a glow furnished the small room.
Finnian strode over to the workbench positioned in the back corner. Above it were shelves full of oddities. A thick grimoire with tea-stained pages. The skull of what appeared to be a small animal. A black cast-iron pot. Crystals and jewels of various shapes and colors. Bundles of dried herbs. Vials and jars stocked with odd items—seashells, fuzzy brown spider corpses, roots of some kind, green leaves, mushrooms.
Finnian plucked two orchid-colored crystals from the shelves and aligned them within the sigil drawn on the wood surface of the workbench. “Do you know where we are?”
“I am familiar with this land.” Cassian kept his distance across the room, guard up. “However, it seems we are somewhere cloaked with magic. A city that is new to me.”
“Hollow City,” he said with his back to Cassian as he worked.
Cassian’s eyes grazed over Finnian’s shoulders and down his waist, noting how his lithe physique had slightly filled out. “Never heard of it.”
“Because I created it about three years ago with Eleanor and Isla. I needed to teach them how to activate a sigil properly, and we had nowhere to live, so…”
He created his own city.
He was okay. Safe. Building a home for himself. Cassian was proud to hear this, but equally unsettled. “There is a war going on in the western region within the Rowena continent,” he said, unsure of how to go about expressing his worries. “The border is mere miles from here. I do not know how far the ruin will spread.”
Finnian paused and glanced at him over his shoulder. “When the war began, I cloaked the city to keep the residents safe as a precautionary.”
Not to hide from him. Or perhaps both? Cassian didn’t have it in him to ask.
As if he could hear Cassian’s thoughts, Finnian held his eyes for a long moment, reassuringly. It was plenty to settle Cassian’s doubts.
Finnian continued working.
Cassian inched closer to get a better look over his shoulder, curious. Drawn on the wood surface of the workbench in blood was a runic arc.
Finnian reached up on the shelf and grabbed individual bundles of dried white sage and mugwort twined in string. He placed them in the center of the sigil and snapped his fingers, the glint of his rings catching in the candlelight. The bundle of herbs caught fire.
Finnian held them both up and blew out the flame, though the herbs continued to burn.
Tufts of smoke curled in the air. The pungent odor thickened. Cassian’s throat tickled, moisture collecting in his eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Are the citizens of your city human?”
Finnian waved the smoking herbs in a precise circle above the sigil. “Some, yes. It is a safe place from all deities.” He let go of the bundle, though it remained fixed in the air. “A significant influx of mages has occurred in the past year. According to Eleanor, I have become something of an inspiration to them.”
Or they were mages who favored his necromancy.
Cassian brought a hand up to his hair at the idea of Finnian’s necromantic ways being spread amongst others. The thought spiked his stress.
A jar levitated from the shelf and floated down to Finnian’s open palm, filled to the brim with dead scarab beetles.
He sighed and returned his hand to his pocket. “Why have you called me to your home?” His kept tone was subdued, purposefully reserved.
Finnian silently placed a few insect carcasses from the jar into the glyph’s center. He swiped his hand in a casual dismissal and the jar glided back to its spot on the shelf.
His arms paused in their movement, and he angled his head sideways towards Cassian. “How is my father?”
It came out quiet, uncomfortable. The Finnian he knew would never ask such a personal question. Cassian could deflect it or refuse to answer, which would only pain Finnian. It was a line of fire the young god rarely put himself in the middle of.
Cassian recognized his vulnerability and wanted to do everything in his power to nurture it.
“He is well,” Cassian replied delicately.
“Do you visit him regularly? He enjoys company.” Finnian’s hands did not stop moving.
“I visit him when I can, but he is getting by just fine.”
“Naia always worried that he suffered.” Finnian rotated to face him, expression terse, bothered by the thought. “Tell me, is he suffering?”
Their last conversation sprang into Cassian’s mind—the emotional confession he’d given Finnian, how punishing Vale was something he never wished to do, words that Cassian wasn't sure if they’d cut through Finnian’s detached persona and truly reached him.
It seemed, though, they had.
“Unfortunately, suffering is a part of his imprisonment, but I can assure you I do not make his days torturous,” Cassian said. “Unable to explore the world or be with his children is more than enough.”
Finnian looked down at the broken stem of white sage between his fingers. “I am glad to hear you still care for him.”
Cassian studied him for a long moment in search of answers he desperately longed to know. “What am I doing here, Finnian?”
Finnian lifted his chin. A look of mild astonishment passed over his features as Cassian addressed him by his name.
As quick as it appeared, it vanished.
With his usual stoic expression back in place, Finnian said, “It has been years since you last disrupted my peace.”
Cassian’s eyebrows raised. “That is what you asked of me. Is it not?”
“Yes. It was.” More discomfort rattled in the timbre of his voice.
Cassian started across the room, doing the very opposite of what the voice in his mind chided.
As the bridge between them shortened, Cassian could feel the static of Finnian’s aura pricking at his skin. Bold, persistent, and warm—colors of magic and fierceness that he hadn’t realized how much he longed to be in the presence of until now.
He removed a hand from his pocket and held his fingertips over the hollowness of Finnian’s cheek. A silent permission.
Finnian’s eyes flickered from Cassian’s fingers to his face. A silent approval.
He cradled Finnian’s jaw and gently tilted his head sideways, tracing his thumb over the jagged, white puffy patch of skin beneath Finnian’s right ear. With the motion of his thumb, the glamor hiding the scar lifted.
Finnian sucked in a breath as Cassian measured the width of it by comparing it to his index finger. It matched the span of a water-woven whip he’d witnessed annihilating the flesh of its victims many times during the duels he was required to attend.
He studied the heliotrope crystal nestled in Finnian’s ear canal, lightly pressing his thumb into the base of the scar, wishing he could siphon the horrid memory from its tissue.
You care for him, Ruelle’s singsong voice chimed in his head.
“Tell me,” he murmured, moving his eyes up to Finnian’s. “Why did she do this to you?”
Finnian’s nostrils flared, but he did not pull away. “After Malik killed…” He looked sideways. “Killed Arran, I acted impulsively and revealed my necromancy to her. We fought. I lost. She banished me.”
Cassian knew about the violent exchange, but never gave it a second thought. Deities harmed one another as easily as blinking. Now, though, simply picturing Finnian lying on the moonstone floor of Mira’s great hall, wailing, sent ripples of fury through Cassian’s blood. So much so, he had to force the image aside to dilute his taste for vengeance, knowing he would not be satisfied until he inflicted the same amount of pain on the High Goddess.
“Can you hear anything out of your right ear?” he asked.
Finnian grabbed Cassian’s hand and lifted it from his face. The scar disappeared. “No. Not without my hearing aid.” He twisted his head and tapped on the crystal fitted inside of his ear. “I created it using a rare crystal.”
Cassian lowered his hand. “It’s powered by its properties and a spell?”
Finnian turned and resumed working on the sigil. “Yes. Though, it took trial and error to perfect. I went through several beforehand that gave me issues—relentless static, volume that was unstable and undecipherable. Once I managed to find the right crystal, the spell worked seamlessly.”
Cassian was quiet for a beat, jaws clenching. While his witchcraft and dedication never ceased to amaze Cassian, it did not water down the climbing rage towards Mira for inflicting such injury on Finnian in the first place.
“Do not pity me,” Finnian said, voice small. “I am able to hear just as an average person can with it.”
“Do not mistake my quiet response as pity.”
“Then what shall I take it as?”
“A deep anger towards your mother. She loathes you because of what you are,” he said, lip curling in disgust the more he thought about it. “She is afraid of those who hold more power than her. You are the first deity born in existence who is also a mage.”
Finnian gave a small chuckle. “I figured that out long ago in Kaimana. The servants talk.”
Cassian ran a hand over his squared jaw, suddenly wishing he’d cursed Mira with a punishment far worse than a lifetime trapped beneath the sea. It appeared the High Goddess kept Finnian’s title tight-lipped within the sea-dome of her kingdom.
“Your siblings aren’t any better,” he scowled. “Save for Naia.”
Finnian paused in his movements, drawing in a breath. “The last time we met, I was not living in a graveyard for the reason you believe.” His confession left his mouth in a murmur. Whether he was intentionally allowing his discomfort or show to not, Cassian was unsure.
He recalled the comment he’d made upon his arrival, swiftly pointing out that Finnian’s home was no longer a graveyard. It appeared the slightly judgmental comment had stuck with the young god. “Then why?”
“I prefer the silence of graveyards because, while I’ve perfected my hearing aid, the fact is, without it, my hearing is broken. In loud, busy environments, my brain must work harder to listen during conversations. It causes me to experience a mental fatigue that no potion or spell can remedy.”
“Do you have any other side effects?” he asked, meeting Finnian’s vulnerability with empathy.
“Some, yes. When it first happened, I experienced a persistent ringing in my ear and vertigo until my brain adjusted to the loss. Now, those things have settled. Though, it does take my brain a moment to adjust if I go a certain length of time without wearing the crystal. The noise coming in does not sound… natural .”
Cassian cataloged all of this information in the back of his mind, appreciating every small, intricate detail Finnian shared with him.
Finnian lined a white powder alongside the symbol of blood. “Back at the graveyard, what did you make the triplets see?”
“Illusions of their worst fears.”
Finnian glanced back at him, intrigued. “Illusions are your niche, I presume?”
Cassian smirked, sliding his hand back inside his front pocket. “My talents go much further than ruling the Land of the Dead.”
Finnian stared at him, somber, almost as if he understood something Cassian was afraid to admit to himself. That a part of him had always held back on the young god. Whether it was intentional or because he had underestimated Finnian in the beginning, there had always been a part of him that never desired to curse him.
“What are you working on?” Cassian turned his attention to the sigil.
The question snapped Finnian out of his thoughts, and he raised a hand. “ Ignis. ” He matched the incantation with a languid wrist motion.
Mystic red flames devoured the bundle of white sage and mugwort in its center. Embers rippled up in the charcoal caps of smoke. The frail pieces transformed into tangible specks of light.
Cassian tilted his head back and took them all in, painting the room.
Finnian swiped his hand in a backward motion and the candlelight snuffed out. Darkness engulfed the room and filled with a swarm of harmonious, medallion-like orbs buzzing around them.
Fireflies.
“Do you recall that night in Augustus?” Finnian asked.
Cassian peeked over at him, peering up at them. They reflected like luminescent ornaments in his eyes. “I recall it every day.”
“It is in shambles now because of the war.”
Cassian frowned at the prospect of the countryside now a battleground. “It will rebuild. Mortal villages always do.”
Finnian flashed his gaze, rich and green like juniper, onto Cassian. “I know you bargained with Mira to replenish the balance within the Land of the Dead and the Land of Entity. The balance that I disrupt with my necromancy.”
Cassian’s shoulders stiffened and he refocused on the magical fireflies, unable to look directly at him as he said, “I told you, I do not wish to curse you.”
“Why?” His voice was almost a whisper.
Cassian reached for the words he did not know how to say. His tongue felt heavy with their weight. “Because I do not wish for you to suffer.” It was a surface-level truth.
“Do you think I wish the same for you?” It came out rough, accusatory. A glare burrowed into Cassian’s cheek. He could feel Finnian’s frustration dissolving through his skin and bristling in his veins. “You asked why I called you here. It is because I wanted to make you a promise.”
Cassian rotated, granting his full attention. “What do you mean?”
“Those in Hollow City will never perish.” Finnian said, his tone full of resolution. “However, I will not revive those outside of my city. The rest of the world is yours, free of my tampering.”
Cassian searched his face, astonished by his vow. Compromising in any way was the last thing he expected—for Finnian to show recognition of the burden his necromancy had placed on Cassian’s shoulders. The situation of balance was temporarily resolved, and while Finnian’s declaration was hardly perfect, it was something .
A smile broke apart his lips, carving adorable divots on both sides of his cheeks. “Is this what the High God of Death and Curses looks like when in shock?”
A flutter caught in Cassian’s stomach.
No.
He shook his head as that flutter turned into warmth flooding his insides, threatening to drown him. “Do not make promises you won’t keep.”
Do not care about me.
Finnian reached out and grasped his hand. The chill of his rings startled Cassian’s skin as he rearranged the hold to a shaking-hand position. “I vow on my title that I will not go back on my word.”
Cassian’s mouth went dry to the sensation of Finnian’s skin, soft, like the velvet of a rose petal.
His eyes dropped to their joined hands, studying the tendons and veins along the back of Finnian’s, over his knuckles and the various titanium rings on his fingers.
His delicate hold eroded Cassian’s apprehensions. Within it was a preservation that his promise would uphold.
“Okay,” Cassian murmured, bringing his eyes back up to Finnian’s. “I will retract my list of souls from Malik. So long as you keep your vow.”
“I apologize.” Finnian brushed his thumb over Cassian’s knuckles. “For stealing your souls.”
His touch spread gooseflesh up Cassian’s wrist. “I appreciate the repentance, Little Nightmare.”
Better off as enemies.
Don’t do this to him—to yourself.
Let go of his hand.
The command from his brain moved through his synapses but dissolved somewhere along the way. All sense of rationality and the harrowing reality of what awaited him seemed distant. So far away, he felt untouchable.
Tethered to Finnian, he finally felt grounded, like he’d been drifting for some time and failed to notice. It was just as it had been the night they sat along the stream in Augustus, talking, smiling, enjoying each other’s company. He did not care, so long as Finnian was nearby.
“ Finny ,” Finnian said with a playful note in his tone. “If you must call me by a nickname, I would prefer it to be that, rather than Little Nightmare. ”
Cassian smiled, a quiver rolling down in his chest. “Very well, Finny .” He tested the name out on his tongue. The syllables balanced well and came out smooth. It felt personal and well-acquainted.
At the sound of it, Finnian’s thumb ceased its movement along the back of Cassian’s hand. Tingles danced up his tendons like currents of electric light. Finnian’s gaze intensified around him.
He cleared his throat and lightly pulled his hand away, retreating it to the safety of his pocket, and shifted his stance, positioning himself sideways in the direction of the door—as if he planned on walking out rather than teleporting away. “I must go back. The war has brought in countless souls.”
“Of course.” Finnian crossed his arms, his eyes dark and holding onto Cassian’s with growing fervor.
A wave of heat blew through his bloodstream and he tugged on the cravat tied around his neck.
Turning his head, he switched his attention back to the glowing specks floating around them.
It betrayed the foundation of which he stood on the past five years.
Each time that he yearned to seek Finnian out for no other reason than to see him, he’d withheld by reminding himself of Ruelle and all the ways she could hold him over Cassian’s head. All the ways she could harm him.
The potential of Finnian’s pain had always been greater than Cassian’s own desire.
However, standing there now with Finnian, with the fireflies and his vow and apology, Cassian was not strong enough to walk away into that imaginary desert he’d trekked through for the last five years.
Without looking at Finnian, he asked, “When can I return to see you again?”
It was reckless and irresponsible. Stupid. So utterly stupid. But he didn’t care.
A moment of silence passed, prompting Cassian to give in and look at him.
The magical fireflies drifted like fuzzy, golden stars around him. Their gleam illuminated the twinkle in Finnian’s eyes and reflected off the whites of his teeth, displaying a hypnotizing smile.
“Whenever you wish.”