Chapter Forty-One Zephyra #2
“Fine, wife. So be it.” With another wave, Eos’s soul manifests in a burst of sunlight on the temple steps.
It solidifies into her true form. Long legs, lean arms, and sparkling eyes.
I almost buckle again. The sight of her is so beautiful.
I could weep. Vesper does weep—silently this time.
“Eos will live. Amaya’s people with thrive.
Gavriall’s debt will be severed. And your darling warlock can return to his brutal tower. ”
My heart races.
Eos is here. She is right here. Looking at me, her gaze widened in surprise and her hand flying to her lips. “Zephyra,” she whispers. I ache. I ache all over.
How can I say no to this deal?
How can I say no when, without this deal, there is nothing left for any of us?
“Don’t.” Arion’s voice, tendrils of his magic, permeate my mind with stunning clarity.
My heart leaps at the sound—at how strong it is, how vital, just as he sounded when we first met.
My heart shatters all over again. “Zephyra, don’t save us.
Don’t unleash him on the world. Mortem will kill you.
The balance will finally upend if you do this, and he will be limitless.
You will die. Permanently. You have to let us go. You have to save yourself.”
I almost weep at the last. After everything Arion and I have been through, from strangers to enemies to this, the last thoughts of his extraordinary life are of me.
Of my happiness, over everything and everyone else.
And it hurts. Goddess, it hurts to see him lying there, just out of reach. Forever out of reach.
Arion is as good as dead now. We are all as good as dead.
I would have loved you.
You have to save yourself.
I’ve tried that though. I kept putting myself first. I damned every person who loved me because of it.
Jacin. Eos. Arion. I think their names with that same stunning clarity as Arion’s voice.
I carved out Jacin’s heart. I killed him.
I abandoned Vesper, and Eos, and Stavros, and Eos and Stavros died because of it.
And Arion—I entangled our lives. Without knowing better, I dragged him right into this fucking mess.
No. I’m done saving myself at the expense of everyone else. There is no point in living without friendship, without trust, without love. I have been alone—deeply, truly alone—for almost a decade. I won’t do it again.
Without another choice, without another hope, I approach the bronze chest on heavy feet. Numb feet. When I reach it, however, I cannot help hesitating, even with the eyes of the entire temple on my back. Watching. Waiting.
Fuck it.
I’ve never hesitated before. Why would I start now?
My hand stretches toward the chest, and I hold my breath, wanting it to remain locked forever. Wanting it to respond to my touch. My fingers graze the antique bronze, and—
The lock pops open.
Just like that, the lock opens, and so does the chest.
And I know instantly what it means. How it condemns me.
Reincarnation.
Vila.
The dance of life and death.
But I don’t fucking care. Even if I am a… a goddess, what has divinity done for me? What does it matter? My life has been nothing but agony. Every fucking breath, every fucking day. All because of him—because of Mortem.
Silence descends behind me. Not even Mortem speaks. Perhaps he expects the heavens to open up in celebration. Perhaps I’m meant to receive centuries of memories, of purpose and meaning, but—I am still just Zephyra.
I am still just a woman standing in a blood-drenched room, slick with death.
“Good girl,” Mortem murmurs at last. “Bring it here.”
I stare down at the open chest.
“Kill him,” Arion pleads. “Use the heart, and murder him.”
On dove-white velvet rests the still-beating black organ of a god.
I kneel to pick it up, holding it in my hand, and it contracts between my fingers. Sticky. Warm. Fragile. I could do it—crush it, just like Arion wants. I could end Mortem’s reign of terror before it begins. It would be the just thing to do. The right thing to do.
Save the world.
As if outside my body, I clutch the heart tighter now.
I begin to squeeze on impulse, and vicious satisfaction cuts through me at the sound of Mortem choking, cursing.
Dying. Slowly, I turn to watch him, relishing the way his knees crumple.
The way he claws at his throat, his eyes widening in true fear.
Just as mine did every single day for a decade.
My satisfaction is short-lived, however, when Eos collapses too, mimicking his movements as if also suffocating. She shrieks in pain. She starts to cry.
So does everyone else. They all fall now, like dominos, choking and writhing on the floor. Vesper. Amaya. Gavriall. Arion.
Instantly, my grip on his heart releases, and my satisfaction twists into sickening regret. Of course Mortem has tethered their lives to his. Of course he wouldn’t make this easy—and yet, somehow, he has.
“That’s it, Vila,” the sorcerer purrs. “Place it in my chest. Between my ribs. Put my heart back where it belongs.”
Save yourself.
Save your friends.
Though it seems as if I have multiple options, multiple pathways I could run down, I don’t. There is only one option here.
There is only one way to fix all this.
Rising to my feet, I take small, tentative steps toward Mortem.
Each feels wrong. Each slices through my composure until I’m trembling all over.
He grins now, brushing pink hair from my face with gentle reverence—false reverence—as I begin to lift his heart to his ribs.
“You care too much, Vila. You have always cared too much.”
I force myself to lift my chin again, glaring at him. “Yeah, well, you’re a jackass.”
And without another word, I shove the organ straight through his tunic, through his flesh and ribs, to the empty cavity inside his chest.
It happens quickly after that.
A sharp inhale, and Mortem becomes whole once more.
A subtle glow unfurls across his skin, and his eyes, his hair, take on an otherworldly luster.
Even I gasp at the great and terrible sight of him, stumbling back a step as he groans, bowing inward, and enormous black wings rupture from his shoulder blades.
They span the length of the temple. They cast us all in shadows too dark, too sentient, as if the Fathoms itself has arrived.
Vesper curses and grabs her sister, holds Eos tight in her arms. Gavriall snatches Amaya’s wrist and scrambles toward the exit. The enchantments upon each of them shatter.
And Arion—he rises from the dead like an avenging spirit, the hole in his chest knitting itself together right before my eyes.
His blackened veins don’t recede, but they do fade into a faint silver on his beautiful light brown skin, and his wings don’t simply twitch.
They haul him onto his feet, stretching wide, white and gold against Mortem’s darkness.
Arion Stone is gloriously alive. Every part of him.
Every piece of him. Alive, alive, alive.
Stronger than before, stronger than ever, his head snaps up, and his gaze burns with gilded fury.
He’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything else in this world.
His knuckles crack. He tilts his head. He glares at Mortem, at the mirror image of himself, magic sparking in his palm in a brilliant display of blue fire and amber lightning and fearsome vengeance.
“Arion,” I whisper.
He looks at me. His silver-gold eyes widen. “Zephyra,” he murmurs.
And that word—it’s not enough. I want more. I want hours of his voice. Years of it. Decades and maybe even centuries with him. I want the futures we spoke of. I want to be happy, and I want the cottage, and I want it with him by my side.
But I can’t. We can’t.
Arion and I end here.
“We have a deal,” Mortem whispers.
His words, his wicked and cruel voice, are the last thing I hear before he hauls me against him.
The God of Death’s hands curl in my hair, vicious and unrelenting, nails slicing into my scalp.
Without wasting another moment, without Arion able to turn his magic onto Mortem and save me, the god twists.
Flames burst beneath my flesh, pain blistering, burning, and then—
Nothing.
Mortem snaps my neck, and I die.