Page 44 of The Fallen Kingdom

Sorcha recovers from her initial shock and her mind slams into mine. She shoves at me with so much force I see stars beneath my lids. I grit my teeth. Her power is an onslaught of teeth and claws bucking against me.

You’ll have to kill me first, she’s thinking.You’ll have to kill Kadamach.

The assault of her power is tremendous—but it’s no match for mine. I surge through, catching a glimpse of the memories beyond the thorns. I can see the outer fringes of them—images that flicker by so quickly I can’t keep up.

She puts up another fight, frantic now. Desperate.Don’t.

My fingers tighten around her throat.Surrender, I think to her. That inner voice is as harsh and cold as any fae. I sound powerful. I sound like the Cailleach.

I shove into her mind again just as my fingernails break through her skin.I said, surrender.

Sorcha’s struggles grow fainter now, her defenses weakening. I can’t help the small stir of triumph that she’s finally helpless against me. Finally.Finally.

Don’t, I think to myself as revulsion knots my stomach.Don’t become so much like Lonnrach that you forget why you’re doing this.

I focus on my task: to find information. Like with Derrick, my human mind can’t comprehend the stream of images that make up the span of Sorcha’s experiences. There are thousands of years of thoughts, events, and emotions to sift through. Each one is perfectly intact, all of it happening at once. As if time is different for her, meaningless.

When Lonnrach did this, he sorted through my memories with care and precision, as if he were running a thread through a needle. I try his tactic of calling memories forth, coaxing them out of the stream of images based specifically on what I want.

The Book of Remembrance. Show me what she doesn’t want me to see. Show me. Show me.

Sorcha uses the last ounce of her strength to resist and send me off in another direction, but I hold firm. I bend her to my will. Her last vestiges of resolve vanish under the force of my command, my power. I feel her body go slack in its chains and I loosen my grip on her throat.

Her mind opens, and I walk into her memory.

I’m standing in a glen just after twilight, beside a tree that reaches for the sky with sharp, bare branches. The beautiful, fresh scent of spring flowers is fragrant in the air. Beads of water have collected along the bark, signs of a recent rain. Etched in the tree is a fae symbol I’ve never seen before. When I reach out to touch it, my fingers go right through the trunk.

It might look real, but it’s only a memory—so perfectly intact I can see every groove in the bark.

Sorcha is standing next to me and I’m shocked by her appearance.What’s wrong with her?

She looks sickly and too thin. Beneath the gossamer glow of her fae skin, she has a fevered flush to her cheeks. Sweat glistens along her brow, and her hand trembles as she pushes her hair back. Her eyes are filled with depths of emotion I’ve never seen from her. Desperation?

I flinch at Lonnrach’s voice behind me. “I can’t come with you.”

I turn, expecting the same harsh gaze I’d seen so much of while he kept me prisoner. But, like Sorcha, he doesn’t resemble the Lonnrach I’ve come to know. This isn’t the cold faery who bit me every day just to read my memories and discover my secrets.

In contrast to his sister, Lonnrach’s skin is startlingly beautiful, glittering in the moonlight. His pale hair is gathered at the nape of his neck, the salt-white strands shining in a halo around the crown of his head.

As he regards his sister, Lonnrach’s expression is stern, but sympathetic. I’m startled by how open he is, how readable. He often tried to hide his feelings from me in the mirrored room, especially when he searched through my mind. Sometimes, when he pulled up memories of me and my mother together, I think he felt sorry for me. Those glimpses of his true self were always overshadowed by what he’d done to me and Aithinne.

But in this memory...his eyes aren’t the same battle-weary ones that settled on me with disdain every day between his torture sessions.

Sorcha’s mind tells me why: This happened before Lonnrach was imprisoned. Before both kingdoms fell. Before Kiaran killed his Falconer and gave up his throne.

“Bheil thu eagal?” Sorcha’s question is teasing. At Lonnrach’s sudden sharp look, she smiles. “So youareafraid. It’s only a book.”

“Bi sàmhach,” Lonnrach snaps. He glances around, as if he expects to be attacked. At Sorcha’s laugh, Lonnrach scowls. “I heard the Cailleach never really killed the Morrigan. You’d better hope she’s not trapped in there.”

“Oh, stop it. Those stories are for children.” Sorcha waves a dismissive hand. “Even if theyweretrue, the Morrigan was weakened. While imprisoned, she’s—”

“Still stronger than you,” Lonnrach interrupts. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“If you’re so worried, then come with me.” She sounds teasing again, but I hear the hint of worry beneath her words. I can sense from her thoughts that sheneedsthe Book, not just to own it for the power.

Why then?

“I promised I’d help you find the door. Now I have,” he says. “If I go with you, my Queen—”

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