Chapter 22 The Best I Never Had
The Best I Never Had
I
shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have done it.
What if I killed her or did some other irreparable damage?
But… what if the same thing happened to Azaire because of her? What if I saved him?
I go to Azaire’s next class. Perhaps it’s guilt, or maybe I need a kind hand, but I wait at the door until he sees me. Immediately, he rises. He doesn’t even think twice before walking to me.
When he approaches, I wrap my arms around him. I want to tell him what I did to Ms. Ferner. Yet when he asks, “What’s wrong?” those words don’t slip out of me.
“I was worried about you,” I say instead. “The poison.”
I grip his neck tighter, unsure why I’m lying.
“I’m okay.” His breath slips through my hair.
I pull back, holding his waist as I look up at him. “Can we go back to your suite?”
He answers instantly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Of course.”
We walk together, hands intertwined. My thoughts race past Ms. Ferner. Is she okay? Should I be alerting someone that she might be hurt?
When the door to Azaire’s room closes, I press my lips to his. His hand rises up the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair before both hands cup my jaw. His forehead rests against mine, and slowly, he pulls away.
“I’m okay,” he whispers again.
“So am I.”
I grab the back of his neck, pulling him to me. All I want is to lose myself in his touch—the only touch.
Azaire kisses me back, ravenously, indulgently. For once, he isn’t gentle, as if he understands that gentleness is the last thing I want.
Greedily, I reach my hands up the back of his neck, tugging his beanie off. He gasps, worried for a moment—-a trained reaction.
Then he settles down.
I watch him. Watch his snakes, watch him in his fullness. I want to see him.
Slowly, he trails the backs of his hands down my arms. Stopping at my wrists, he unbuttons my gloves with reverence. As if he’s unshrouding a constellation. A deity in the sky, pulling down the stars.
His fingers linger, outlining the shape of my hand. He glances up at me, eyes searching—for permission, for understanding.
I offer it to him. I want him—the same way he wants me. The way I’ve never been allowed to have anyone. And yet happily, wholeheartedly, he gives himself to me, everything he has. Knowing my past, knowing my story, it doesn’t stop him.
I want to return the favor.
The gloves slide off completely.
It’s rare to feel the air on my skin—the same way it’s rare for him to feel it on his snakes.
He lifts my hand to his mouth, eyes never leaving mine, and kisses my fingers one by one.
Every finger that’s capable of killing meets his lips.
Then his hands rise, settling on my waist. With urgency, he tugs me back into him. My lips fall on his with a deep sigh. I trail kisses down his neck, stopping at the hem of his shirt. I reach for it, tugging it over his head.
Azaire looks at me like I’ve done something impossible.
Then his hands come to the bottom of my shirt, tearing it from my body, too.
Both of us take a step back, my eyes searching every inch of him. Him seeing all of me.
When I look up, his gaze meets mine. Slowly, I reach behind my back, unclasping my bra and letting it fall to the floor.
Something in his gaze shifts. He closes the distance between us in a single step, one arm slipping around my back, holding me upright as he leans in. My spine arches as his mouth finds mine.
Ungracefully, I fumble with the button of his pants, failing to undo them multiple times. Azaire leans back, his gaze soft as our laughter mingles.
Then, softly, he asks, “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Positive.”
I pull his lips back to mine as he unbuttons his pants.
?
There’s a knock on Azaire’s door, and I ignore it, blissfully ignorant in his arms.
He holds me tighter, pulling my back against his chest, and I lean into it—as much as I can.
But Desdemona’s feelings grate at my skin, tearing me apart. Desperation.
“Wendy?” Her voice is muffled through the door, and I sit up.
Azaire’s hand rests on my thigh as I wrap his jacket around my torso. “One moment!” I call through the door.
“Is that Desdemona?” Azaire asks.
“Yeah,” I say, a little breathless, while I tug my pants over my hips. “I think.”
I know.
“Okay.” The word is light on his tongue, but it lands heavy in my chest.
The surface is calm, almost careless, but beneath it, I feel the pull. He feels he owes her something.
I turn to him, meeting his gaze. “What is it?”
“Lucian,” is all he says at first. “He thinks she’s connected to the monster attacks.”
I narrow my eyes at Azaire. “What do you think?”
He shrugs. “I think Lucian is intelligent but sometimes shortsighted.”
“Sounds about right.” I nod, leaning down and kissing his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Azaire smiles, nodding once. “Tomorrow.”
Then I’m out the door.
Desdemona stands at the entrance to Azaire’s room, ready to knock again when I walk past her.
“Follow me,” I mutter, walking fast.
Her mentioning the prophecy in front of anyone in this suite is a risk I can’t take.
This is between me, her, and Calista.
Desdemona follows, her fear trailing close behind. But beneath it, something else pulses. It flickers at the edge of my senses, a close hum, like a bee brushing past my ear. It crawls over my skin but remains just out of reach.
I lead her to my favorite corner of the garden, tucked between the academy’s outer walls and the edge of the woods. It’s a mostly desolate place. In all my years at the academy, I’ve never seen another student here.
There are no windows on these academy walls—no prying eyes from the inside can peek out. In the center, the statue of Zola stands, a scale balanced in one hand while the roots of a tree coil around her other arm, anchoring her to nature.
It’s quiet here. Secluded. Grounded. All the reasons this corner feels like mine.
I sit, and Desdemona mimics my movements, looking at me expectantly.
I already know what she wants.
The memory of the prophecy rushes through me like ice trapped beneath my skin, in my veins. I shudder. It either belongs to Desdemona, or she is the catalyst that will make it happen. Either way, the end of the universe will be on her hands.
Unless I can stop it.
I hold my hand behind my back, trying to fight the idea. Torn between resistance and resolve.
The thought is dark in my mind. Like a cloud, coming to take away the sun.
Still, I unbutton my gloves. Slowly, at first, like I’m hoping hesitation will stop me.
A part of me knew. From the moment I channeled the prophecy, I felt it settle in my bones like a verdict. This is the way to stop it.
The only way.
All paths must end with her blood on my hands.
“So much for fighting,” the boy mutters.
“What do you want?” I ask, my tone gentle. There’s only so much I can feel guilty for, and I won’t add being mean to the boy to the list today.
“I want to make you whole.” I ignore him, and he adds, “You think accidental death stings, but deliberate killing stains.”
I wipe him away like an ink blot. He only smears, sitting at the corners of my mind, watching.
I pull my gloves completely off, knowing he can see.
“I felt something when I channeled it,” I tell Desdemona, referring to her prophecy. The reason she wanted to speak to me. “I can share it with you.”
I hold out my bare hands.
She’s severely undereducated.
She takes hold of my hands immediately.
If I were any other Eunoia, this would be enough to control her emotion. But for me, this is enough to kill.
I don’t blame her. She’s from the septic. She doesn’t know any better. She likely has no idea what the Eunoia can do. What I can do.
Perhaps I’ll cut the prophecy down before it grows roots.
All I have to do is hold her. If I wanted, I could push my emotions into Desdemona. It would be more than enough to fry her brain, like I did to Xander.
It’s his memory that holds me back—the little bit of Xander that lives in the boy. He keeps me from deliberately killing Desdemona.
Instead, I wait for my touch to take its natural course.
Her skin on mine, her feeling this prophecy in its entirety, it has to be enough to kill her. It should be.
I begin to share the prophecy with her.
The first part is mind-splitting agony—becoming someone else involuntarily. Perhaps it’s what Xander felt when my emotions overrode his own. The next part is agonizing loneliness—not much different from my past four years.
It’s the end that feels like the end. When the cracks in the universe divide. Death, so much of it. How it felt when Ma died, times thousands.
I wait for the breath to escape Desdemona—for her to keel over.
It never comes.
She pulls her hands from mine when the prophecy ends, alive and well. One part of me breathes a sigh of relief. The other feels like it was a job not well done.
“Don’t take this path,” the boy warns. “It’s stained in black.”
“What the fuck was that?” Desdemona’s voice trembles, her hands held out before her, shaking more violently than mine.
“Your prophecy.” My gaze follows the natural curve of her collarbone. Beneath her shirt, the faint outline of a necklace presses against her skin—just like Calista said.
The bee buzzing in my ear intensifies, as if it’s turned human and started screaming.
“It’s what I felt when I channeled it,” I say, voice low as I fixate on that necklace.
There’s something off about it. About her. The agony, the fear, everything she always feels is twisted beneath the surface, tangled with that necklace. It’s as if a shard of her pain is lodged there, buried in the stone.
Her claws start to flex as I focus on the necklace. Her fear makes sense now. The stone isn’t just a trinket—it’s a cage holding pieces of her soul. The lines between her and that necklace blur until I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.
But the stone has to be the Memorium, and something bad has happened to it. Something has broken.
It feels like darkness incarnate.
“And you can just pull up that feeling, whenever you want? Give it to someone else?” Desdemona asks, and I glance up, meeting her gaze.
It’s a confusing sight at first. I swear I’d seen a million images of her in that necklace—but it was only feeling that I saw.
I take a breath, remembering what she asked.
Sharing emotion is the least of what I can do. But I don’t say that. Truthfully, I’m slightly in awe that she survived. I frown at the thought. I didn’t do enough.
I could’ve done so much worse.
But what if I don’t have to kill her? What if the darkness lies in that necklace?
“Pretty much,” I answer.
Desdemona frowns. “You feel it?”
“I just did.”
Remorse. She feels remorse.
She feels remorse for me trying to kill her.
I quickly brush the thought aside. Maybe there’s a reason I failed.
“I’m sorry,” Desdemona croaks.
The strangest thing is that she means it. Her sorrow buds in my chest, yet I prefer it over her fear. It’s an easier emotion to swallow.
“I’m surprised you weren’t found out sooner,” I say, and I truly mean it. She speaks like someone from the septic. “No one here says sorry.”
Desdemona raises an eyebrow. “Well, I am.”
“She’s one of the firsts,” the boy says. “One of the firsts, and you tried to kill her.”
“Shut up.”
“You need me.”
“It’s fine,” I tell Desdemona. The boy is right, as he usually is. The guilt is already here. “I’ve felt worse.”
Desdemona’s mouth opens slightly, her eyebrows jumping up her forehead. “What could be worse than that?”
Ma flashes before my eyes, half of her body in the ground.
“The real thing,” I say my voice far—numb. I glance at Desdemona’s necklace once more, searching for any way to change the topic. “What stone do you wear?”
For a moment, Desdemona stares at me. Her eyes narrow, angry. As if all the progress I just made, all the remorse she felt, is being wiped away with every word that comes out of my mouth.
“It was my mom’s,” Desdemona says. It’s not a lie. Nor is it the whole truth. There’s something she’s not saying.
“Why do you wear it under your shirt?”
I feel her sorrow dissipate. So quickly, too.
“To keep it safe.” Desdemona’s hand reaches for the outline, anger emanating from her movement. “It’s the last piece I have of her.”
Not a lie, not the whole truth. She’s smarter than I thought.
“Is it the Memorium?”
Desdemona smiles, somehow finding humor in this. “You do know I’m from the septic, right?”
“Answer the question.” Pressure builds behind my eyes. Power surges into my hands.
“No, it’s not the Memorium.”
Desdemona laughs a little, and she’s not scared of the threat of my glowing eyes—my magic. I could pull the truth from her with a thought. Is it possible she’s not hiding anything? The theory would hold weight if it weren’t for the power that builds in her. A tide reaching for the shore.
It feels different than an ordinary Fire Folk. Hot enough that the feeling alone could burn me if I let myself dive into it.
“We don’t get to keep the precious stones; we only mine them,” she spits with an edge to her tone. A clench to her jaw.
“The Memorium is a Soul Stone.”
Desdemona sneers as she replies, “All the more reason I can’t get my grubby hands on it.”
Gods, I’ve annoyed her.
The pressure behind my eyes begins to burn—her burn, her power pressing against me. As if she wants to fight me for the crime of being annoying.
Desdemona stands, turning to walk away as she says, “Thanks for showing me the rest of the prophecy.”
But she’s not very thankful. How could she be?
It’s awful.
Facing the academy, she stops midstep, turning to look into the woods. Fear floods her veins like air—lethally.
“What is it?” I ask.
Desdemona doesn’t turn toward me. Her gaze remains fixed on the distant trees, waiting for something to emerge.
I sit up. What could she possibly be waiting for?
“You should go,” she mutters.
The mental strain is equivalent to a sword fight. She’s sparring with something in the woods—something I can’t feel or see—and she’s desperate for me not to sense it.
Her desperation goes to waste.
The trees rustle, and I flinch. Dark gray shadows cast upon the leaves.
“What’s out there?”
“Nothing,” she lies.
“It’s certainly something, I can feel you.”
With her gaze settled in the distance, Desdemona shakes her head.
For good reason, too. Because a dark gray cloud of smoke hovers towards us.