Page 166 of A Promise of Peridot
I jerked my chin in agreement as he released me. Guided us both away from the ledge.
“I have to ask,” Griffin said. “The blade?”
“He took it. With her...” I couldn’t say the word.
Her body.
She was just a body now. Just a shell.
When Griffin shifted, I climbed atop his feathered wingspan, Ryder after me, his face flushed and splotchy from a deluge of tears.
My mind was silent as we took to the skies.
Utterly silent, as we sailed over the depths of the fathomless forest below.
As we moved through the clouds.
Until later—
Hours later—
Lifetimes later—
In the suffocatingly dark, foreboding silence of my study. With no one else around, more than inebriated with drink.
My thoughts crawled to the surface, where I was forced at knifepoint to face them.
It was so obvious now. Painfully, punishingly obvious. It had always been his plan. To let me live. To let us both live. So we could find the blade for him before he killed her.
We had been played.
And now, there were only three things left to do:
I would locate the White Crow. Endure whatever necessary to become full-blooded.
Hunt down Amelia, and make her suffer in unimaginable ways for her betrayal.
And then, when I’d torn the world to shreds, when there wasn’t a man or woman still breathing who could be faulted for her death, I’d complete the prophecy in Arwen’s place. Vanquish my father, drive the Blade of the Sun into his heart, and join her wherever she was now.
With the Gods. In the ground. Nowhere. I didn’t care.
I had lived centuries without Arwen. I couldn’t do it again.
Until then, I knew only one cure for such grotesque, intolerable pain:
Revenge.
Epilogue
arwen
The stitches were healing slower than I expected.
It was the worst injury I’d ever sustained, but still. My lighte was diminished for some reason. I searched the room with my eyes for the hundredth time for any clue as to who had saved me or where I was.
Dark, bloodred tiles stretched out across the floor. I examined them, noticing the slight sparkle from the sliver of sunlight that slipped between the drawn brocade curtains. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the tiles were made of rubies.
My eyes trailed upward, flitting across the jet-black marble armoire lit with at least thirty white candles that never seemed to drip an ounce of wax, let alone snuff out. And next to that, the fireplace of the same obsidian marble, rectangular and covered by a thin layer of glass. I had glared at that roaring fireplace for hours now, trying to figure out how the logs were placed inside, or where the chimney was. I would have thought it some kind of illusion or sorcery if I couldn’t feel the licks of woody heat wafting over my face.
