Fallacies (Anomalies #2)

Prologue

twenty-two years ago

Twigs snap as she runs, and rogue tree branches tear at her arms viciously. Any hope Esme had of soothing the baby in her arms is scorched when her boot catches on a long tree root hidden by snow. She manages to spin, her body utterly spent, and takes the fall to her back.

But she’s on her feet a heartbeat later.

Running.

If the circumstances were different, she might be able to appreciate how beautiful the winter has made the woods.

Trees soar overhead, offering little view of the cloudy sky, and the ground is covered in frost that glistens as the early morning sun pours down upon it.

Small tufts of grass peek through the patiently melting mounds of snow, promising the arrival of spring.

Suddenly, the crying stops. Her fast-falling footsteps and ragged breathing are the only sounds. Esme sacrifices one precious second to look down and some part of her breaks when she sees big, honey eyes fixed on the woods around them—wide and tear-filled.

Her little girl has never seen the trees before. She’s never even seen the sun.

The wind howls around them, and the first of the rain dots their skin, heavy clouds blotting out the sun, turning the wintery sky into a mass of tragic grey.

Fitting, Esme thinks, but deep down…deep, deep down…she wishes her last sunset could be a beautiful one.

Esme fights the tug around her heart and the chill seeping down through her bones, running the last stretch of their journey with her arms wrapped tight around her little girl.

There’s a small cottage up ahead, perched on the bank of the river. It will have to do.

Allowing no time for herself to still, Esme only slows her steps, climbing the worn wooden porch on trembling legs.

Despite how hard she’s been trying to force it down, selfishness finds her anyway. She thinks about turning. Leaving. Esme isn’t sure what she deserves, but she knows her baby doesn’t deserve this. Any of it.

Perhaps she should take her. Perhaps she should try her hand at outrunning the Hound.

Esme is fast, and she’s smart too. If anyone could do it, it would be her.

But those are selfish thoughts. Esme is so tired of running, and that’s no life for a baby.

As quick as she used to rip off her own bandages, Esme sets her daughter close to the door, tucking her under the wide frame to keep the rain from falling on her face.

Her hands move with the courage she lacks, taking the top layer of the blankets her baby is wrapped in and shoving it into the satchel at her waist. Then she pulls a small pouch from the bottom of the bag, its contents clinking softly as she sets it down beside pale, wriggling fingers.

It would never be enough—what’s in this bag. A measly sum of coins. Her little girl deserves the world. The sun, moon, and stars hung on a string. If Esme could, she’d rip them out of the damn sky.

A tear slides down Esme’s frozen cheek as she reaches up, numb fingers fumbling with the silver chain around her neck. Magic sparks along the metal and then the clasp gives way. Esme pulls it from her neck and refastens it around her daughter’s, the silver medallion nestling itself in her blankets.

Esme takes one last look. A good look.

She studies her rounded face, rosy from the cold. Wide eyes, watching her mother like she has since the day she was born. There’s an entire world around, one she’s never seen, and yet she’s looking up at Esme.

Her chest tightens. Esme doesn’t think she deserves that kind of devotion. Not for what she’s done. Not for what she’s about to do.

Bending quickly, Esme brushes her lips across her little girl’s temple, pressing a gentle kiss there. She traces her pointer finger down her full cheeks, wet from the rain. She memorizes her sweet face and the contour of her nose, as more tears slip through the corner of Esme’s eye.

“I love you, little moon,” she whispers, the first and last thing she’d ever say to her—in this body at least.

She wills her legs to shift, her daughter’s cry splitting through the frigid air as she hurries back to the forest.

It all happens too fast, she thinks, as she watches the wooden door to the cottage swing open from behind the trunk of a large tree.

A thin, frail lady steps out into the rain, cursing under her breath when she looks down at her feet. The woman scans the tree line, and when she takes a step forward to investigate, the pouch of coins tumbles down the stairs, spilling as it falls.

Esme watches the woman’s eyes widen at all the silver, and then she hurriedly gathers the pieces. As if someone might come to take them back. The woman stands, tucks the heavy pouch into her pocket, scans the woods one final time, then picks up Esme’s baby.

When the door shuts behind them, the slam is deafening.

In one brutal second, Esme becomes a shell of what she once was. Everything she’d ever wanted is now inside, and she is out here…empty.

She exhales.

Esme lets her head fall back against the tree bark, and then she does something she hasn’t done in a while. She prays. She pleads to the sky. To anyone who might be listening. To the wind, the seas, and the stars. To all three Matrons—if they even still exist. But her final prayer goes to Fate.

Because Fate likes Esme.

When she runs out of prayers, she lifts her head, and moves. She slips back through the forest, keeping that last image of her little girl burning in the back of her vision, deep into her retinas.

Her little moon. A bright spark in the deep black.

A drop of hope in a sea of nothing.

Esme’s way back through the woods is twice as cold, her arms empty, and when she steps out onto the ledge of the canyon, she takes in the dying sun through the heavy clouds. Rain still pours, sideways over the rocky expanse before her, but the sun is there. Bleak and partially hidden, but there.

She grips the carcass of the rabbit she’d caught in the woods. It’s about the size of a baby, but she pushes that image out of her head as she numbly tosses it over the edge, shuddering as it splats onto the canyon floor.

Forging on through the slowing of her heartbeat, Esme reaches into the deep pocket of her bag and brings the tattered baby blanket up to her nose. She inhales greedily, and another tear slips down her frozen face. It’s the sweetest thing she’s ever smelled—her little moon.

Esme memorizes it, tucks it where she’s kept the image of her bright, little face, then she tosses the torn fabric over the cliff’s edge, watching as it snags on a branch below.

With nothing left, nothing at all, Esme begins reciting. Words she was never meant to say.

“Veyren Talis’mir,” she whispers. “Veyren Talis’mir.”

Valorous words spill out into the canyon. She can’t stop them. No matter how badly she wants to.

“Veyren Talis’mir.”

Damning words.

Esme tilts her head back, watery eyes to the sky, deciding that she isn’t afraid of it, death. No, she’s going to welcome it. She’s going to greet it with a smile, because she has the kind of spirit that can endure.

If the deep black rushing in to claim her is a forest fire, then Esme is a deeply rooted tree.

Flames lick the ends of her wild hair as she takes that fatal step over the edge, smiling softly as the burning dark consumes her.

A bright spark in the deep black.

It’s Esme’s final thought as she falls to the unforgiving stone.

The canyon walls echo its sentiment, and the scorched ground absorbs it, that final thought. Its ripple is like a shockwave that whispers it back to the world. To the stars. To the sea.

To anything the light touches and everything the darkness clings to.

A drop of hope.