Page 87 of Night of Death and Flowers

“What are you doing?” I push back, but his shadows creep over my body before I can stop them.

I glance down, my heart racing as I watch his shadows transform the fabric of my dress into a star-spun gown. The dark gray ombres from the bodice hanging below my shoulders, down to my lace sleeves and silver skirt.

I run my hands over the thin layers of fabric, wondering what manipulation he’s using now in doing me this small kindness. Although, it feels good to finally be out of that dress, so caked in blood, mud, and sweat. I’ve never seen that magic done up close before. “Am I able to do that?” I ask, my shadows rippling around my fingers.

“With practice,” he intones.

“I feel a little overdressed for a murder tournament,” I state, not wanting to admit it is the nicest thing I have ever worn. It’s too nice, for me. “It’d look better on Ari, when we find her. You can make her one instead, considering she is the prophesied one.”

“It was made for you.” He inches closer, and I crane my neck to look up at him, when he whispers. “You are devastating, Calista.”

I step out from his shadow. “I—I am going to find somewhere to sleep.” Away from you, I think the last part.

“We must talk.”

I cast my eyes to the ceiling, trying to find an ounce of patience. Having to be cordial with him is so fucking difficult. I hate that I need him. I sigh, then force a small, grim smile—For Ari. “Okay, go ahead.”

He paces, then walks to a different wall, this one covered in a collection of drawings. “I’ve been thinking about your ability to resurface some of my memories. We’re going up against the gods and elders blind.” He points at one faded drawing. “See this? I don’t recall it being here, which means it was made after my memories were stolen.”

I sweep in front of him and glide my fingers over the temple wall, over a painting depicting a girl with her heart removed.

His voice is a velvety ribbon of darkness as he commands, “Use Cyna’s magic. Access my memories.”

I turn to face him, my back cold against the stone. “Last time you hated that.”

Azkiel presses me against the wall, then lifts my chin with his thumb. “I’m not asking, Poison.”

“For Ari,” I say, then place my hands on his chest, splaying my fingers over his heart. Tendrils of Sight magic leak into him, guiding and transporting me as the bare skin of my back rubs against the wall behind me, over the image carved into stone.

The room transforms, with intricately decorated vases and candles lining the length of the walls. A musty, floral scent permeates the area, and I notice the stone altar, decrepit and cracked just moments ago, now polished, and embellished with various fauna and foliage. Painted symbols from crushed berries decorate the sides, and red silk covers the three stone steps leading up to it.

But before I can hold on to the memory, it falls away. “I can’t.”

He presses harder, his fingertips brushing the curve of my jaw. I can feel him tensing, restraint pulling at every part of him. “Yes, you can. Try again.”

I close my eyes, focusing as he strokes his thumb around my throat, a low growl emitting from his throat.

The claws of my Sight magic sink into him, and he holds me in place as I delve deeper. Unlike last time, however, the memories are longer, the emotions melding with my own until I can’t breathe.

I watch Azkiel through the centuries, with every living thing he tried to touch turning to ash in his hands. His rejection is my own, when he is cast into the mortal world by his family, to wander between life and death. With every thump of his heart, I’m transported into his sadness, gazing as he becomes hardened, vicariously watching the world move on without him while he’s forever alone.

I find a memory, ingrained so deep beneath the scars of his heart I wonder how long it’s been buried. His lips long for another’s, his soul torn when he knows he can never feel her lips again.

Again?

I’m thrust out of him before I can go deeper.

“Enough,” he barks, his voice waning. He stumbles back, catching himself against the side of the altar.

He balls his fist over his chest, his eyes squeezing shut, and I realize I hurt him. I should be glad. I always wanted this. But when I look at him, I only feel sad.

“Don’t pity me, Poison,” he says breathlessly.

“I don’t,” I whisper.

“Good.” He stands straight, then wipes the sweat from his brows. “It will weaken you.”

“You think it’s a weakness?” I ask, my brows furrowing when his expression crumples. “Or do you not believe you deserve it?”

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