Page 4 of Martyr
I should’ve predicted what comes next, too.
I slip off the dock and fall headfirst into the ocean.
2SAINT
My head is killing me.
My mind keeps churning, spitting out cherished memories of Elora. And then confusing thoughts about Artemis. And then back to Elora.
Like how I tattooed her for the first time, close to the beginning of Olympus. When she became a regular fighter, and I started designing masks for Jace, Apollo, and Wolfe, we were free. We moved in together. I opened Starlight with the money from Olympus.
Dreams were happening.
But then the next moment, it’s not Elora I’m tattooing, but Artemis.
I slam my palm to my forehead and try to clear the thought.
Antonio and a guy I didn’t know came to the hospital after I screamed at Artemis to leave. I’ll never forget her expression when I asked for Elora.
Heartbroken.
Her face shouldn’t be familiar. It wasn’t familiar, not really. I only knew of her as Elora’s friend and Apollo’s twin sister.
That’s it. She was no better than a stranger.
And yet… something in her expression hurt me, too.
When Antonio and the stranger, who introduced himself as Reese Avery, asked if I wanted to go somewhere safe to heal, I somewhat readily agreed. It was better than going back to a life I didn’t know.
They failed to mentionshewould be here.
Isle of Paradise is both familiar and strange. It seems to exist in its own reality. It’s a comfort to be away from Sterling Falls. Outside of the most haunting memories. Maybe I’m imagining it, but there seems to be a cavernous void in my mind, and all theoldmemories—of Nyx, of happiness—bounce around.
ButArtemis.
Everywhere I look, there she is.
Even when I most desperately need to be alone, she finds me.
I soak up her words about Starlight and try to imagine that I could keep existing after Elora died. I must’ve—I’m here. I’ve seen a calendar. Reese Avery showed me his phone, and the date on the screen was undeniable.
Starlight flourished in my grief.
And I…
I seem to have been through a war. I have more scars than before, including an hourglass-shaped one in the center of my chest. Bruises everywhere from the accident, although it’s hard to see with all my tattoos.
Most of them, I’m familiar with.
There are a few new ones, though.
Like the little scales of justice on my upper thigh. It looks like my work, which is crazy. I’ve tattooed myself before, of course. But it’s generally not my favorite thing to do. It’s other artists’ work that I want on my skin.
I don’t know why I picked the scales. They’re even, and each one has a flower on its plate.
Artemis grasps at my arm and pulls me from my wandering mind. Her hand on me, even through my sweatshirt, is like a branding iron.
I whirl around, and it’s not hate that rises swiftly inside me, but something closer to craving.
