Page 78 of Ivy & Bone

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He still needed his power, especially if he hoped to overpower Vasileios. But it just wasn’t as important to him as . . . other things.

His gaze slid to Prue, who watched him expectantly. His heart warmed at the sight of her, disheveled and windswept. Even out here, her expression solemn and her hair askew, she looked breathtakingly beautiful.

His magic barked at him as if shouting for his attention, and Cyrus shut his eyes, letting his power overtake him.

Show me, he urged it. Show me the book.

Obediently, an image of the wretched grimoire came to his mind. It lay open, just as it had when he’d last been in Faidon. The book began to tremble, and piercing screams echoed from it.

Gods, why did the book always have to scream?

Cyrus gritted his teeth, worried he would lose hold of this vision somehow. But it only intensified, smothering him with the sounds of suffering and the smell of death on its pages . . .

Cyrus gasped, his eyes flying open. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he regained his bearings. Prue’s hand was on his arm, grounding him, anchoring him to this point, this place.

An echo of the screams still resonated in his chest, and he clung to that remnant. Beside him, Prue stiffened, her body going rigid.

“You feel that?” he breathed. When she nodded, her expression strained, he added, “Witch dust. Now.”

Again, she nodded, cramming her eyes shut as she no doubt searched for her magic, just as Cyrus had. Cyrus watched her, waiting for the telltale vines to snake forward obediently. What he didn’t expect was the surge of warmth burgeoning in his chest, warring with the ice-cold chill of his death magic. He sucked in a breath at the intensity of it, the two forces colliding in an explosion of power. Gods, it was staggering. If he weren’t still gripping Prue’s arm, he might have collapsed from the sheer brutality of it.

The snow at their feet shifted as the vines came to life, swirling around Prue in response to her magic. As if jealous, Cyrus’s death magic flared, sending images of the Underworld flashing through Cyrus’s mind. His throne. The rivers. The crown of bones.

He shuddered, struggling to keep himself in the present alongside Prue. She needed him. But as he tried to focus on her, his death magic dug its claws even further inside him. The fluctuation from death to earth, from dark to light, from destruction to life, made Cyrus’s head spin. Growth and decay. Vines and dust. Blossoms and ash. Ivy and bone.

Cyrus’s death magic was at war with his bond to Prue. He hadn’t realized how incompatible they were until both fought to claim him.

Mine, his magic seemed to say, digging its claws deeper into him, cutting through flesh and bone.

But no. Cyrus didn’t belong to the death magic.

He belonged to her.

In the midst of this turmoil, his hand sought Prue’s, clenching her fingers tightly in his. They both clamped down on one another as if it was just as taxing for her as it was for him. But the sensation of her fingers curled in his warmed his body, bleeding through the chaos in his mind.

Prue, he thought. Prue.

His focus narrowed on her, on his bond with her, their connection and shared energy. Her magic wasn’t his anchor—she was. She kept him grounded, linked to this realm, to this space in time.

Gradually, clarity burned through his mind, shattering the illusions of the Underworld and his death magic. He breathed deeply as if he’d been suffocating before. Something shimmered in the air in front of him, tickling his senses. He opened his eyes and found the witch dust hovering in front of them, waiting expectantly.

Prue’s eyes opened, too. Just like Cyrus, she was panting, her face pale but her eyes alight with power. She exchanged a glance with him as if to say, You felt it, too? They both nodded to each other.

Prue waved her hand, and the witch dust spun in the air, surging forward to lead them toward the book. Without preamble, Prue and Cyrus hurried after it.

GODDESS

PRUE

Icicles sliced through Prue’s chest, freezing her insides and chilling her bones. It was more intense than anything she’d ever felt. More intense than the normal cold presence of death magic she’d grown accustomed to.

She knew it was Cyrus’s magic come to life. And she tried not to be alarmed by this.

But judging by the crease of his brow and the way his fingers twitched, as if itching to form fists at his sides, this was unusual for him.

Still, they both remained silent as they followed Prue’s witch dust. The shimmering sparkles floated in the air like fireflies, leading them down a winding, narrow road that crested downhill. Several villagers called out to them, some questioning who they were and what they were doing, but Prue and Cyrus hurried past, unable to stop.

They were so close now . . . so close . . .

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