Page 54 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
This monster soaring on wings of golden fire was nothing but a nightmare.
Here, safe in the Catacombs, she cooed at Samuel, her sleepy hushes and soft bounces doing so little against his cries, it was a wonder he started to quiet at all. He laid in her arms, tiny and fragile—perhaps as fragile as herself. Her body ached, still recovering from the birth. She felt every pull and uncomfortable stretch on her skin, the discomfort of sitting on a hard brick seat, the tears stinging her eyes, the ache of wishing for Jove to be there.
Not the Jove she’d known recently. She wanted her husband from before, her betrothed who stole her heart and made her believe their union, while motivated by their parents and ultimately political, would be something beautiful. Colorful. The stuff of dreams.
She wanted to escape into her paintings again. The morbid urge to paint the beast crept through her, but the better part of herself kept her frozen on the stone floor, her back pressed against the brick wall behind her, cradling her infant son in her arms. The grit dug into her back. At least it felt real. It felt familiar.
She was stone, not glass, not the fickle wind. Stone.
Repeating that kept her sane until Samuel finally fell asleep in her arms.
Hours had passed, and her husband had yet to come through the doorway. The Catacombs, while expansive, brimmed with terrified city residents in varying states of injury, shock, or dress. Some had come in nightgowns, others insequined yet bedraggled evening gowns, swept from the middle of a play or an elegant evening with friends and family in their stuffy, comfortable homes and thrust into the middle of a war. Now they were flecked with blood, sitting on a bare brick floor like her.
A few soldiers shouted about setting up an infirmary in one of the eastern caverns. Another group attempted to organize the influx, taking down the names of missing family members.
Jove. Jove Shackley. Yes, that Jove Shackley. Light-skinned. Blue eyes. Short, dark hair. Tall. Husband. Father. Missing.
Left behind.
Other than to describe her husband, she hadn’t spoken to anyone since the attack had begun; whatever words she might’ve had turned to smoke as soon as she tried to speak them. Instead, her emotions poured out in her tears, an unceasing flood.
Had he found that note? The one that she’d left on the side table?
Was that why he hadn’t come to find them?
No. He wouldn’t abandon them to this, no matter what she’d said. She pressed her hand to the wall behind her and eased herself to her feet, one inch at a time so as not to disturb her baby or her aching body. Maybe if she kept moving, she’d find him. Or Les. Her father-in-law probably hadn’t made it out of the cells.
She didn’t know how she felt about that.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
She was okay. She was alive.
Don’t wake the baby.
She cuddled Samuel closer, hoping her swaying gait would keep him unaware of the chaos his new world had devolved into.
When her husband hadn’t returned with Les after the sentencing, she’d made her decision. She knew he’d gone outdrinking. He’d promised to stop, but he’d given her enough broken promises to fill the near-empty Davey Estate.
She closed her eyes against the ache in her chest. She prayed hard, but heavy tears were her only answer.
Between One World, the Cerls, and the dragon, an inebriated Jove wouldn’t make it far—especially if they discovered who he was.
She would never get to say goodbye or tell him just how much she loved him. She’d feigned sleep when he’d kissed her temple before he’d left for the courts, and now…
It might be the last kiss he ever gave her.
Her heart throbbed again.
Pain threaded through her ankle as she twisted it on a loose rock. She bit her lip to keep from losing what weak grip she had on her emotions. Thankfully, she hadn’t dropped her son, though the jostling had woken him. Limping to the next clear space of wall beside an offshoot tunnel, she slid to the ground, her pack grinding and scratching against the brick.
She laid her head back and pushed down her pain, trying to focus on what to do next now that the world had shattered into a thousand glass shards. Samuel’s cries pierced the roaring tide of sound. No amount of shushing did anything. She didn’t remember when she’d last fed him. It could’ve been an hour or seven, but she just couldn’t think straight. His cries rose in pitch.
She needed to feed him. She needed to find Jove. She needed—she needed—
“Here, let me help you, hon. I’ve got a spot away from the ruckus where you can feed your babe,” a soft, aged feminine voice said from above.
Clara opened her eyes to see a white woman, probably in her forties, with dark but mostly gray hair pulled back into a smooth bun. Her eyes were peridot green and full of concern.Clara opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, tears slid down her face.
