Page 100 of Heir of Illusion

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Me?” His head cocks back incredulously. “Areyoualright?”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. For the first time in ages, I can’t bring myself to tell a lie. What’s wrong with me lately? Why can’t I pull myself together and do what has to be done?

“I’ll have to go back soon,” I mutter.

“Back?” He shakes his head, eyes blinking rapidly. “Why would you go back?”

My eyebrows pull together as I tilt my head to the side. “Because I have to.”

“Fuck that,” he growls.

I clench my jaw, getting really tired of his attitude. “You don’t understand.”

“On that, we can agree,” he mumbles under his breath.

We sit in silence for several minutes, both of us stewing as we watch the waves.

“Are you actually a reaper?” I ask one of the many questions that has been bothering me since I learned his true identity last night.

He raises a brow. “That was random.”

“It’s a fair question, given your propensity for lying about who you are.”

He rolls his eyes. “My mother was a reaper, which means I am too.”

“Oh.” I want to ask more questions about her, but I know it’s a sensitive subject for him.

“Can all reapers make shadows?” I ask instead.

“All reapers canwieldshadows,” he says, staring out at the waves. “And we can all take a life with only our touch. But both of those abilities manifested differently in me. More vicious. Less controlled,” he admits. “I don’t know if that’s because of how I was raised or because of who my father was.”

I suppose being the child of a God would have an impact on your magic. Everything Thorne told me about his father fills me with hatred for the God I never met. All the stories I’ve heard about Desmond, the former God of Death, lead me to believe he was a beloved leader. Is that how the history books will remember Baylor too?

Pushing those thoughts away, I return to my other pressing questions. “Why did you choose to go by Thorne?”

“Because it’s my name,” he says flatly.

My eyebrows pinch together. “Your name isKillian.”

“Killian Blackthorne,” he corrects me. “My father chose to name me Killian, but Blackthorne was my mother’s last name. Those I’m closest to have always called me Thorne.”

An inkling of warmth blossoms in my stomach at the knowledge that not everything was a lie.

“How old are you?” I ask after clearing my throat. “A thousand?”

He barks out a deep laugh, shaking his head. “Not that old. Not nearly.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re evading the question.”

“Do you truly want to know?” He glances at me from the corner of his eye and I spot hesitance in his gaze. “I fear the answer might disappoint you.”

“Just tell me,” I insist.

“I’m a little over two years into my third decade of life.”

Shock has me nearly tipping over into the sand. “You’re only seven years older than me.”

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