Chapter 50 Meera
Meera
Can I die from this? No immortal outside a Valkyrie could perish from a broken heart, yet Meera wondered if she might be the lone exception.
Why couldn’t she have what she wanted most in the worlds? Why had fate slighted her and Lowell?
If only I was his mate.
The thought hit her again as she slunk home for the first time since moving to Strix Keep, and her already swollen eyes burned with fresh tears. Angry ones.
She hated being trapped in this pain with no obvious escape. She’d tried to get over him, only to sink deeper, unable to eat, unable to sleep. With no lifeline coming.
Her chaotic emotions fed her power, and it swept over the ’Wood. Witches fought. Hexshots cracked through the trees. Rage simmered like steam from the roots.
Terrifying to her, because her magic had once ended the person she’d loved best.
Swept up in one of Meera’s storms, infected by frenzy, her practical, battle-hardened mother had run headlong into a fight she could never win.
A senseless death.
Ditch had been right about maddened opponents; they were easy to vanquish.
Tears stung Meera’s eyes again. She’d repeatedly tried and failed to control the fury, as her mother had commanded. Meera’s best bet for help was Ditch. Which wasn’t a bet at all.
She meandered down the path to retrieve her thesis, but she dreaded stepping inside her house and facing the memories waiting to ambush her.
The coffee table where she and Lowell had first shared whiskey.
The couch where he’d made her come for the first time.
The bed where they’d discovered each other with greedy fingers and hungry mouths.
As she neared her cottage, she frowned. She hadn’t sensed any of Ditch’s magical traps. Strange. Yet she was too hollowed out to care. The sight of her dark, forlorn home made grief well even more.
She opened the door, disturbing a letter on the floor.
Lowell’s handwriting!
She dove for the lifeline.
With trembling hands, she tore open the seal of the Seneschal of Craigdúr.
Meera,
This is my last letter to you, my last plea, and I will never bother you again afterward.
But I needed to tell you what’s in my heart.
Her glowing palms dampened the paper. Tears blurred everything. She swiped them away, devouring each word.
I told you I thought I might be in love with you. These days apart have erased any doubt. I do love you.
So much.
You’ve stolen my heart forever, and I never want it back.
She gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
You said fighting fate is impossible. Isn’t fighting love even more futile? What I feel is real. True. Lasting. It’s yours, if you’ll accept it.
What if he was different from other Lykae? What if he had fallen for her? If she’d truly enchanted him, he wouldn’t have lasted a week without her.
Maybe her own insecurity had twisted everything.
Oh.
How could it not?
She read on:
You spoke of factions and war. But what if we could leave all that behind?
The letter described a portal to the mortal world opening on Mount Nothrior under the Hunter’s Moon—midnight only—before closing for three more Accessions. No wonder Thane couldn’t be contained there tonight. Ditch had said another party had “booked” the venue.
Had it ever.
Meet me at the base of the Mount. Walk through that threshold hand in hand with me. In the mortal world, we’ll live like gods—travel, taste every cuisine, feel the kiss of fabled oceans. We can learn what happened in the Exile.
No mate can find me in Gaia; I choose you, even over the possibility of her. Choose me back, Meera.
We deserve each other. We deserve more than the Skein can offer.
Let me know if I have a chance, and I will wait for you.
If you love me back—and I think you do—then come. Let’s set off, witch. Let’s never look back.
All my heart and soul,
Lowell
Her own heart thundered. Tears struck the paper like rain.
This letter was dated more than a week ago. She hadn’t answered him! Was it too late? Would he still go to the Mount?
She clutched the letter to her chest and looked around her home—once cozy, now echoing without him. Outside, the moon continued its ascent. Their one chance to choose each other dwindled with every passing minute.
He’d put everything on the line, was ready to abandon his kingdom and mate for her. But she hadn’t responded.
He probably thought she wanted nothing to do with him. I want everything to do with him.
Could love triumph over fated matehood? Could two people choose each other over destiny?
Could she?
Folding and pocketing his letter, she climbed the stairs to her attic and pulled out the cradle her mother had rocked her in. A future child—Meera’s child—might sleep there one day. Would she give that up? Would she give up living among her kind, learning from other witches and acquiring wisdom?
Her breath shuddered out.
No male was worth that.
She repeated it. Told herself again and again.
And still…
She touched the cradle, grieving the child she’d never hold.
And still…
She drifted downstairs and dressed for travel.
And still…
She uncovered the secret cubby where her mother had hidden an expensive transport spell, meant only for emergencies.
What was Meera thinking? She couldn’t sacrifice everything for him!
Can’t I? She’d just been wondering how she could live without him, wasting away, stumbling through heartbreak like a specter. It would not improve.
She slung her pack over her shoulder, aching for everything she was leaving behind. Her home. The cradle. Nettle at the keep. Yet when she thought of Lowell, she felt as if they could do anything together.
Even thwart destiny.
Why couldn’t she have what she wanted most in the worlds? She could. She just had to decide that she needed him more than a child and more than her coven.
So she did.
Just as Lowell would forfeit his mate, Meera gave up her future children, making a compact with Hecate: I will never bear a babe of my own if I may have the male I love.
Magic stirred; trees groaned. Hecate liked these compacts and rewarded witches for sacrifices.
Good, Meera thought. Bind it.
With the transport spell in hand, she murmured the oothspeak to activate it. Her form faded. The Witchwood blurred around her.
And then she stood at the base of Mount Nothrior, bag in hand, hope sparking—small but fierce—at the dream of a new life with a wolf.