Page 142 of Fortress of Ambrose
He wanted to believe it was love. That some part of the boy who used to play hide-and-seek with him and tell him stories at bedtime was still in there. But he couldn’t live for that hope anymore. He had to start living for himself. Yagrin peeled himself off the wall and straightened his clothes. He splashed water on his face and wiped the sweat from his brow.
He was going to find a way to break the Pact with the dead.
He and Nore would come through thisalive.
That was all that mattered.
Yagrin cut acrossthe snowy fields of Dlaminaugh with sharp steps. The dead had their claws into Nore now, demanding she grow the toushana inside her. He had to figure out what they wantedmorethan they wanted Nore. They were basically human, which meant they could be swayed if he could appeal to them in the right way.
He stopped.
I know what they want.
Nore’s seed of toushana.
They demanded that she grow it.
They wanted a heart withpowerfuldark magic. He hurried faster across the snow despite feeling like he might hurl. He would convince the dead to return Nore’s heart in exchange for a heart with thestrongestdark magic there was.
His brother’s.
Fifty-Seven
Quell
I toss every copy but one ofDebs Dailyon the estate grounds in the fire. I had themallbrought to me when I opened mine this morning and saw the headline.
Wexton Family Mansion Burned to the Ground with One Confirmed Dead Inside
Jordan’s family home, the article explains, was destroyed in a sudden overnight blaze.There is no apparent cause for the arson, it says.Inside are the confirmed remains of a faithful father, servant of the brotherhood, and brother to House of Perl Headmistress Beaulah Perl, Richard Charles Wexton II.Jordan’s father. There is no mention of his mother. Only that they are still searching for remains.
When my fireplace eats the last corner of the paper, I fold the only copy and tuck it in the bottom of a drawer and exhale.He will hear this terrible news from me.I twist the pearls around my neck. I know he didn’t care for his father. But this isn’t news anyone wants to hear. The rest of theDailyis equally harrowing—more Darkbearer attacks on neighborhoods across the States. Morgantown in West Virginia. Lexington, Kentucky. There was one in Nashville last night. And two suburbs in central Alabama this morning.
Each is farther South.
Closer to Chateau Soleil.
He is coming.
We are not ready. There is still a hole in the gate. A rat in the walls. We don’t have anything to put the Sphere’s toushanainto. There is nothing I can do, besides what I can do. And it doesn’t feel like enough.
I sit in my full black gown, as best as I can, and flip through my grandmother’s journal about her roses todo somethinguseful. But another book from the stack I found in the library yesterday grabs my attention: a biography on the Dragunhead. I slide it onto my lap and read about the childhood and adolescent musings of a man who is determined to capture me.
I pull my shawl tighter around myself, when the door opens. Jordan enters, decked out in a fine dark tux with a white bow tie at his neck. His shoulders still hang with the deep heaviness he returned with from meeting his brother early this morning. When I woke up, I found him in the chaise across my bedroom, staring out the window. When I returned from breakfast, he was gone.
The drawer with the article inside it taunts me. Now does not seem like the right time. But who am I to choose that for him?
“You look lovely,” he says, but the divot between his brows betrays his attempt at appearing okay.
I cross the room to be nearer to him. “You never told me how it went with Yagrin.”
He won’t look at me. “Later. Let’s set the trap.”
I knit my fingers and fill my lungs with air. I cannot spend this entire evening with him and not mention this. I have to tell him. “Can I hold your hand?”
He stares at his before offering it to me. “Sure.”
“You don’t fear this anymore.” I lace my fingers with his.
