Page 160 of Death of the Glass Angel
Dragging him to a burning building, to burn him to death. . .
Janus’s breathing grew short, and her hands tightened on her armrests. Not now. Not here. Could she not enjoy a simple play without thinking about him?
Would this piece of her never heal? Time healed all wounds, they said.
They lied.
Grief never departed. It clung to you like wet cloth, like a wound reopened. When you thought the sorrow had passed, pain lanced through your heart like ice, as fresh as the first day.
The orchestra swelled as Burgundy was tossed into the flaming building, and its door bolted behind him. Janus strained to calm herself as something in her bag pulsed and thrummed, matching the beat of her pounding heart.
“Janus?” Felsin asked softly. “Are you okay?”
He wrapped his fingers around hers, and the pulsing ceased.
Fire erupted in their room, bathing the box in burning light. Janus shrieked and threw herself from her seat, losing her footing as she stumbled back, nearly tumbling out the viewing window. Felsin grabbed her arm and dragged her back.
Screams and shrieks echoed through the theater as it was consumed in flame, wrapping around the boxes and streaking across the stage. The roof above their heads shook and groaned, threatening to give way.
Janus looked up sharply as cracks splintered along the roof above them, and the ground beneath their feet quaked, throwing them off balance. Janus’s back collided with the viewing window again.
With a heart-stopping rumble, the wall behind her gave way, and she tumbled backward. Felsin grabbed her hand, trying to pull her back up, but the floor beneath his feet heaved and he slipped. Time slowed as Janus careened backward, plunging through open air to the fire below.
Everything stopped. Janus clenched her eyes closed, awaiting the pain. But it didn’t come.
Opening her eyes, she realized she was standing. Standing? Disoriented, she staggered, clutching her chest as it heaved.
The theatre was gone. The smoke and fire—gone. Even Felsin had disappeared.
She stood in a familiar vista. Sand rolled into the distance, spotted with rough rocks and shrubs. An ancient tower of crumbling stone rose from the desert, its door caved in, revealing a rickety stairwell that was half destroyed.
Eros danced up one step, pausing to shoot her a grin. His pink eyes twinkled as he brushed a strand of curly brown hair from his eyes.
Eros?
This was the oldest building in Thuatia. A tower of superstition. Supposedly, at midnight on the eve of the new year, one could glimpse the ancient edifice becoming a golden clock tower.
Gone were the flames of a burning theater. Unbearable heat quelled into the pleasant warmth of a Thuatian summer’s night.
“Well?” Eros asked. “Are youcoming?”
41
Talon
Let not the stalwart mind forfend
The darkest desires of your heart
Talon watched the play unfold below him, reciting Heras’ cryptic conversation in his head, hoping to make sense of it.
Codes were impossible to crack unless you held the key—and Talon certainly didn’t. Reaching under his coat, he brushed his hidden dagger. He would not have chosen tonight to silence Heras, but it sounded like she had plans for tonight—plans he would not let unfold.
Dinu leaned on the banister beside him, a mug of ale dangling over the seats below. He ran a hand through his hair. “What a mess.”
Idly fixing his hair, Talon chuckled. He’d spent the hours deciding what his report to Lark would say. His master was a realist—the chances of him believing in seers who could glean fate numbered close to zero.
Even Valkyrie found it hard to believe. Wouldn’t anyone?
