Page 131 of Death of the Glass Angel
Missing what? Talon spun around again, now decidedly on edge.
“Looking for the same woman I am?” Felsin walked in front of him.
“Yes,” Talon answered. “Did you see her leave?”
“I saw her with Alfaris.” Felsin nodded at the western tunnel. “I can imagine the rest.”
Talon sighed. “I should go check on her.”
“We should hurry,” Felsin suggested. “We aren’t supposed to leave.”
Nodding his thanks, Talon squeezed through the crowd and stepped into the western hall. An unnatural hush fell over the chamber.
Chief Esseg’s voice carried from the tomb. “They have arrived.”
Talon tensed. Mist seeped through the walls, lining the edges of the floor and hugging the ceiling. Cursing, Talon whirled around.
Heras and Kahn stood opposite one another, eyes rigidly fixed ahead, hands clasped at their side. The crowd held its breath, awaiting judgment.
* * *
Janus dug her fingernails into her arms. Thin trails of blood seeped from her nails, staining her cloak. Swirling mist gathered around her, forming a pair of legs mid-stride. An unfelt breeze stirred that haze, the shape ever shifting, never solid.
Breath coming in quaking gasps, Janus slowly lifted her head. A featureless phantom towered over her, peering down on her crouched form.
A child. This phantom was no larger than a child.
Janus trembled as she gazed at the figure, searching for curls, for pink eyes, for a scar on the wrist where Eros had cut himself with Father’s blade.
The phantom said nothing. Did not move. And for its diminutive size, its presence towered over her.
“Eros?” Janus asked, voice hushed. She reached out a hand, fingers brushing ice-cold fog.
Thrumming in her satchel grew to a crescendo, grabbing Janus’ attention. She slapped her hand against it, hoping to still what hummed within.
Her hand touched the bag, and mist overtook her, painting the world in white. Janus reached for Eros’ wrists, but the fog parted, revealing. . . something else.
A field of blossoming flowers stretched under a sky filled with glittering stars. It wrapped the world like a blanket, curling around the crumbling cliff where flowers spilled into the sky.
A boy sat on a rock, eyes cast upward. Thick white hair gathered around his collar, stark black like his eyes. A girl stood behind him, armsclasped affectionately around the boy. She shared his features and youth—a sister.
Following their gaze, Janus gasped when she saw the images drawn above. A great, horned dragon was written in starlight, looming over the pair like a shade. A familiar voice emerged from the child’s lips: Alfaris.
“The Hierophant’s shadow,” Alfaris murmured. “Joins the stage. The Wheel turns beneath his unrelenting gaze.”
“Is that what you see?” The girl asked. “I see the World’s end—only the Tower remains.”
Standing, Janus trudged toward them, but it felt like heavy weights dragged her back to earth. The girl burst into starlight, fading away like dust carried by the breeze. Shadows gathered around Alfaris, thicker than night. From their embrace, a man clad in black stepped and offered the boy a hand.
Something vibrated beneath Janus’s hand, and she ripped it away from her bag. Jarred from the strange vision, she landed on her knees in the tomb.
Gasping, Janus found herself faced with the phantom again. Had she seen a memory—Alfaris’ memory?
The phantom stepped closer, frigid mist brushing Janus’ face.
“I’m. . .” Janus stuttered. “I’m sorry.” She blurted out.
The mist figure gazed down at her, unmoved.
