Page 31 of Blaze

I glance across the room. Ransom and Maddox look stiff and uncomfortable in their clothes. In just a few hours, the moon will be high and a conjunction will open up. They’ll be grateful to be on the road home and free of wearing trousers ever again, I suspect. The thought makes me want to giggle. I’ve never met anyone who hates pants as much as those two.

“I know, and I’m willing to take that risk. They sacrificed a lot for me. They even tracked down my mother so she can return home too. They think her sight might return when she spends enough time in the hellhound’s realm.”

It’s been awkward talking with the woman who birthed me. She’s distant, and I can’t blame her for that. It wasn’t as if it was her idea to have me. She’s warmed a little now that she knows where we’re going and what I’m willing to sacrifice to get there. The potion will take a little while to take effect and it will hurt apparently, but I’m willing to endure the pain. I want a chance to know my home and to live comfortably with my two mates. It’s unconscionable to ask them to stay in my world, where the lights and sounds are too much for them to handle now that they have a choice.

Kassidy and Briar pull me into their embrace and don’t let me go. It’s comforting to be in the presence of the other Chosen, to discuss our shared struggles, what we’ve all been through. None of us can believe it’s truly over. It probably won’t sink in for a good long while.

“Be careful,” Kassidy says.

“And be happy,” Briar adds with a smile.

“I will,” I say and lift my glass. Briar clinks her champagne flute against mine. “Cheers.”

I down the potion in one go and fire curls like a snake in my belly. I grit my teeth and bear it. I’ve been through worse and the prospect of what comes next is enough.

I’m going home.

CHAPTER TWENTY

BELLE

Horatius watches the loop through narrowed eyes, expression pinched and unhappy.

Kronos flickers in and out of focus, caught forever in a loop of his son’s making. His sickle was poised to take Beacon’s head off. Except Beacon is now a mile away, tending to the wounded. The blow never landed, thanks in large part to our combined efforts to bind Kronos into this singular moment of time.

I place a gentle hand on Horatius’ cheek, guiding his face down so I can look at him properly. His eyes soften when they meet mine, the worry lines smoothing out into the handsome planes of the face I’ve come to love so well. He presses a soft kiss to my temple.

“I’m fine,” he assures me.

“You’re not,” I say, taking his hand.

I guide him away from his vigil, finding a somewhat comfortable position on a nearby rock. We’d managed to back Kronos against a cliffside, hemming him in on all sides. Alder’s loyalists had taken heavy losses to allow us to set up the matrix needed to trap Kronos here, binding him to the land. Aria will destroy this section of the countryside when the civilians can be completely evacuated, finishing this monster once and for all. The salt spray will wash away the bloody remnants of battle, but nothing will erase the losses. I’ll need to raise a monument for them at Castle Chimera, so no name is lost to time. We’ve forgotten too many brave souls already.

It seems wrong to toss their bodies into a mass grave, but what choice do we have? We can’t possibly identify all of them and bring them back to their families before they begin to decay. Bringing a reeking corpse to a grieving family is worse than no body at all, I’m convinced. Their last memory of their loved one should be of that person living and vital, not putrid and discolored, carried in a bleak wooden box.

Horatius draws my hand away from his face, kissing my palm to soften the rebuff. His smile is strained, a pale echo of itself.

“What makes you say that, love?” he asks.

I dart a glance back the way we came. The image of Kronos will fade eventually, no more than a ghost to occasionally bother the unwary passerby. At the moment, though, it’s a solid image, trapped in all its hateful glory for everyone—including Horatius to see.

“No matter what else he was, Kronos was your father. I know you weren’t close but this still has to hurt, on some level.”

Horatius shakes his head with a ghostly smile playing on his lips. “It’s strange to think I ever thought you heartless. You’re the most compassionate person I’ve ever met.”

“My compassion was absent the day I turned you all into monsters,” I mutter, pained by the reminder.

I mull it over constantly. If I’d just spoken to them, could I have had this makeshift family that much sooner? Could we have reached a reasoned compromise? Would it have been enough to turn the tides and save us all this second, bloody war? I know logically the answer is probably ‘no’. Even with Beacon, Alder, and Horatius on my side, we could have only smote Kronos. I’m the only Chosen old enough to have made any real difference in the war effort. The others were still toddling when Morningstar struck. It had to be this way. And yet...

Horatius tilts my chin up so that he can brush his mouth over mine in a tender kiss. I melt into him, the horror of where we are melting into the background for just a moment. I don’t pay any mind to the fetid smells rising from the battlefield, the stench of bodies beginning to rot in the sun, the final, undignified purge of the bowels, the blood soaking into the earth. It fades, and all I can smell is him. He’s no basket of roses either, slicked with blood and sweat, but beneath that is a scent that is uniquely Horatius and I cling to it.

“It’s in the past, Belle. Let it go.”

“I’ll try if you’ll confide in me. You look troubled. If this is too much, we can—”

“It’s not that,” he says, waving a hand at the frozen image of his father. He’s barely focused on it, staring past the apparition to where Alder and Beacon kneel. Beacon is helping with triage, identifying which soldiers are in need of immediate assistance and which can wait. Alder is binding the remaining enemy soldiers with rope. There aren’t many left. When the hellhounds turned on their masters, they left very few breathing. We’re still debating what to do with the prisoners. Put them to death? It’s a possibility, but none of us are happy with the idea of a public spectacle. Beacon is advocating for a stint in Castle Chimera, turning them into teapots, wardrobes, and broomsticks until they’ve learned their lesson. I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with that possibility either, even if it did bring a smile to my face.

“Then what?” I ask.

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