Page 44 of Death of the Glass Angel
Then gaps began to appear. Anomalous holes in her memory, some small, some spanning days. Black spots blinded Talon’s eyes where the sights should have been. Could Heras not remember these days, these moments? Did she suffer from some kind of amnesia?
The day of her husband’s funeral was here, recalled in clarity, yet the day of his death was absent. And sure enough, if there was a valid excuse for her vacancy at the last Thruinc council, Talon could not find it. Desperate, he peered between the memories, searching for anything unusual or any mention of Janus’s name.
He found only one, a seemingly insignificant moment from a month prior.
“That boy.” Heras’ iron eyes flashed as she set down the ball’s guest list. “The youngest son of King Vallides.”
A man sat across the desk from Heras. Copper skin, long black locks. “The one who died in that tragic accident, you mean?”
“Was it an accident?”
The man watched as Heras rose and walked to the window. “Are you suggesting he was murdered?”
“I’m considering it.” Heras brushed aside the curtains, staring into the courtyard.
“What would it matter?”
“Say my son was murdered. What would happen, then?”
Eyes flicking around the room, the man sat back. “I don’t follow.”
“Think. Felsin is my youngest. What would happen if he died?”
Realization clicked on the man’s face. “Brand would. . . I see.” He sat forward, brows knit and hands clasped.
“Someone else knows.” Heras insisted. “That child was murdered.”
“By whom?
“I don’t know. But there’s a good chance the one holding the knife will be at the ball.”
The man rose. “Shall we be rid of them?”
The memory slipped away from Talon abruptly. A flurry of sounds and voices rushed through his mind. Gritting his teeth, he thought instead of Brand, the brutish prince who had glared at Des with hateful eyes, who delivered assassins to take her head.
His head ached as memories flew by, but the son reflected his mother—if Brand had ever spoken about Des before his brash encounter with her at the ball, the memory had disappeared from the maevruthan.
One final image flitted through Talon’s mind: Brand, watching Des from the shadows as she departed the ballroom at the end of the night.
Talon yanked his hand from the maevruthan, gasping for breath. The fog receded from around his ankles, and the sky cleared of its haze. Tripping over himself, Talon rose and backed away, assuming a kneeling position a few paces from the shore. The white faded, revealing the shapes of people prostrated in respect to their ancestors.
Slowly, they rose and returned to their day, the hunter’s eyes falling back on Talon.
Hardly anything of use had emerged amongst the deluge of imagery. Save for the fact Heras believed Eros had been murdered.
And they wished to kill the one responsible. Janus had been but a child at the time, and Felsin had never met Eros. Neither matched.
Grimacing, Talon hurried out of the enclave, anxiously drawing another dagger from his belt.
Janus’ assassins were still out there—she was not safe.Deswas not safe.
He had one, solitary lead. The copper-skinned man who’d sat across thetable from Heras.
13
Janus
Eight years ago. . .
