Desolate (Desolation) (15 page)

Images of the horseman turning into Michael haunted my dreams.

I saw myself stabbing him, over and over again.

I saw him lurching forward and thrusting the spear deep into my chest.

His face shifted between a granite skull and Michael’s pale face.

He was the horseman. He was my love.

The horse drove toward me, nostrils flaring. Black bugs scurried in front of it, crawling up my legs, turning into stone, turning me into stone.

The rider leaned down, and his hood flew back from his face, from Michael’s face. He thrust the spear at me like a lance, pushing it deep into my heart.

And when he smiled it was the gaping maw of a demon.

Great choking sobs racked my body and I had to force them out, force the word out that was caught in my throat, choking me. “Michael!”

“Shh, shh,” Miri soothed, placing a warm hand on my forehead. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Miri.” My throat felt like sandpaper, and I still didn’t dare open my eyes.

“I’m here,” Miri’s words were tinged with relief, but I only felt sorrow. I’d hoped I had died. Hoped I had been sent to Hell. Even exiled to the lowest tier would be better than living with the truth.

That my love had become a demon.

That I had killed him.

Twice.

“Longinus,” I said in a hoarse croak.

“He’s here,” Miri said, followed by some hushed whispers I couldn’t catch.

“Lady,” Longinus said in that horribly reverent tone he sometimes used with me.

I reached out and he took my hand, clasping it between both of his.

I opened my eyes, finding his instantly. I squeezed his hands, hard, and made sure he saw every whit of meaning in my gaze as I said, “You should have let me die.” It came out as a twisted curse, a promise of death.

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the pillow behind my head, pleased with the empty silence that followed.

When I woke again, Miri wasn’t with me. Instead I found myself in a near-dark room, the only light coming from a narrow candlestick on the nightstand beside my head. I kept my eyes focused on the ceiling—I didn’t care to talk to anyone. Didn’t care to hear their words of worry and love, their encouraging pleas to come back to them. I didn’t want to go back to them. I wanted to die, to be punished.

I was not what Michael thought of me. Not what my mother and the other members of The Hallowed—even Odin himself—hoped I would be.
I am a demon. A murderer. I am desolation.
This became my new mantra.

After a moment I became aware—I was not alone.

The chair sat empty.

I lay in a bed—not my own nor James’ or Miri’s.

Slowly I turned my head to the right—and I saw him.

His oh so pale face.

“Michael.” His name spilled out of me over and over again while I cried a whole river of sorrow and need that had no end. The golden spark that had been missing the past few days sputtered to life as I watched him through my tears. With great care I turned toward him, searching for some sign that he still lived.

On his cheek, up toward his temple, black runes, the dark language of Helheimer, marred my beloved’s face. The symbols marked him my father’s. Marked him a chattel of Hell.

He lay so still; his breath rattling as it moved through his chest and out his mouth.

I curled into a ball, as much as the small bed and my aching chest would allow, so I could watch him. Watch, but not touch. I waited. I don’t know how long, I only remember watching him for some sign, some indication that he would live and that he still knew me. That he was still Michael. Still my Michael. But there was only stillness. The barest of breaths, and his pale, pale face lax as if in sleep. Or death. When Miri slipped her skinny arm around my shoulders and hugged me to her, my body felt as stiff and immovable as stone.

I watched as Longinus checked Michael’s throat for his pulse. As he peeled back the blanket to inspect the wound in his shoulder. My stomach roiled when I saw his body with limbs that hung limp and his head lolling back on his neck. I had killed him.

I had done more than send him to Hell. More than curse him with shadows. No, that hadn’t been enough. I had actually killed him.

I felt too much and nothing at all. Everything and nothing.

While every part of me that wanted to push myself forward and answer the call of
touchhimtouchhimtouchhim
, I had a stronger need to step away—to run away.

I did this to him.

I caused this torture to be thrust upon him. His pain, his pallor, his clinging to life—I had done that.

I pushed back. Practically fell out of the bed in my haste to get away.

I got to my feet, gasping at the pain in my chest. I walked backwards out of the room until I bumped against the wall on the far side of the hallway.

“Desi?” Miri called from inside the room. But I didn’t answer, didn’t stay.

Instead, I turned and ran.

chapter twenty-two

James unlocked the front door of our apartment and slipped inside. I had curled myself into a tight ball on the couch, a soft, fuzzy blanket tucked in all around me. I had passed the time as still as a stone. I didn’t think, I just sat. Just breathed. I didn’t dare look inside my heart or mind, didn’t dare in case the flood gates opened and I disappeared in a haze of emotions. Instead, I pressed everything into the hole in my chest where the staff had pierced me through. The pain enveloped the emotions until I could pretend there was nothing left.

James stood in the pitch black entryway, absolutely silent for three heartbeats. “Des?” His voice whispered into the room—an invitation, not a demand.

I didn’t want to answer. I wanted to go unnoticed. To never be seen again. Instead, I sighed.

He moved toward me as though my sigh had been a homing beacon, a flare shot from a sinking ship, a message in a bottle. And when he reached me he gathered me to him, wrapping his arms around me, buoying me up with his steadiness. I gasped at the pain, but clung to him all the same.

“Ah, Des.” His voice crushed the dam I’d carefully erected around my heart. It reached inside, tearing out the barriers. I leaned into him and cried.

For Michael, and what he’d become.

For myself and what I had done.

For the spark I had kept secret all my long life but now seemed so very far away.

James held me, saying nothing, and let me cry. It didn’t last long—I needed information more than I needed release. I didn’t deserve it, anyway.

“How . . .” But I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t ask the words.
Is he okay? Is he going to be okay? Has he woken up? Does he remember me?

Does he hate me?

“Shh,” James murmured against my hair. “He’s alive. That’s all we know.” He pressed his cheek against the top of my head and tightened his arms around me. “His wounds are healing more slowly than you’d think a Gardian would heal—Cornelius says it’s because the weapon is a dark one and Michael is made of light.” James sucked in his breath as if what he’d said might offend me, but I knew what Michael was. No matter what he’d been forced to Become, nothing could change the nature of his being. At least, I hoped not. “But Knowles says that mark on his face is bad news.”

I waited a beat, wondering if he’d say more. When he didn’t, I nodded. “Does he have others?” The words swept out like a breeze, with barely any sound. I hated the question and feared the answer.

James was quiet too long, and I knew. I knew. “Over his . . .”

“Heart.” Of course. Because I’d seen those marks before—I knew what they meant. What they were for. They claimed whatever lay beneath them for Hell. For Satan. Of course Father would want his heart. Of course he would take the one good thing that had been mine and change it into something that could never be mine again.

Michael will never belong to me again.

And strangely, the tears were gone. In their place a familiar cold emptiness settled on my heart.

“Are you okay? Longinus says you shouldn’t have left like that—that you’re still healing too—though faster than Michael.” He gasped at his mistake, held his breath. I was healing faster than Michael because I was made of darkness.

I pulled away from James and let the blanket slip from my shoulders. “I’m going to bed.”

“Come on, princess. Don’t be like that.” He reached out but I stepped out of his reach and left him in the dark. “It’s not just about you this time, princess,” he called to my back, a sour note darkening his tone.

I froze, one hand on the wall beside me, my spine as rigid as rock.

“Miri’s mom died, in case you’ve forgotten. She’s being strong—doing what Miri does—taking care of everyone else. Taking care of you.” I heard him stand. Knew he took a few steps across the room. Knew he stood right behind me. “But it wouldn’t kill you to think of her before yourself for once.”

My shadow-self stretched as first shame then indignation blossomed through me like a flame on dry kindling. I whirled around, my Shadow scraping against the walls, gouging long rakes through the drywall, causing the hallway to tremble. “I did think of her. I thought only of her. If it hadn’t been for Miri, Michael would never have gone to Hell, never have captured Heimdall and I—” The words caught in my throat. I knew I’d gone too far. Knew things weren’t as cut and dry as I made them out to be. But there would be no turning back, now. I stepped closer, saw my reflection in his eyes, saw my wings take shape behind me. James took a step back, but I only pressed forward. “If it hadn’t been for Miri—none of this would have happened.”

Lies. I knew they were lies.

I brushed past James, tore the balcony door off its track, and lunged myself over the railing and into the sky.

chapter twenty-three

I flew for hours until exhaustion forced me home. I collapsed on my bed, though I never found sleep. At some point I heard James get up, move around for a while, then leave. He left the apartment smelling of fresh brewed coffee—a peace offer
ing in a war he didn’t ask for.

I rolled over and pulled the downy white comforter more snugly around me. I wished for darkness, but the sun had risen and despite the drawn blinds, slivers of sunshine reached into the room, casting stripes of warmth over my body.

I stared at the pattern on my arms. Shadow and Halo. Despair and hope.

Me.

I snorted, threw off the comforter, and lurched from the bed in one continuous motion. I stomped toward the bathroom when suddenly a biting cold washed over me. I froze with dread.

Father had come.

The wound on my chest burned and I pressed a hand to it while I gripped my other hand at my side, clenched into a tight ball of fury. “What?”

My whole body shuddered with cold until my mother’s necklace warmed like the sun and sent rays of warmth out to battle against the cold. I touched my fingertips lightly to the surface. I feared its protection would never be enough. I wondered if I even still wanted it.

“Whatever you came to say, say it.” I stared in the mirror, expecting to see Father take shape behind me.

But I saw nothing.

His presence lingered for a while longer and I tried not to rip the sink out of the wall.

A fierce pain, like a knife to the wound over my heart, skewered me and then suddenly left—and with it, Father.

Even after the cold had lifted, I stood there, hands clenched, breathing ragged.

I stumbled back until I bumped against my bed. I sank down and sat on the edge of it, trying to regain control of the wild beating of my heart. It didn’t really work. My right arm tingled and I rubbed at it absently.