Page 95 of Tempt

Salvaging and then harnessing her weapons, she crawls toward the book, and the moment she sets her fingers on it, another glow pops out of the rubble, coming from farther away. It’s the trap, still active.

Or is it something else?

Wonder stumbles to her feet. The same process repeats, with her and Malice attending to the sequence of books, hobbling over chunks of wood and iron and glass and paper. When they come to the spot that had once been the restricted section, they encounter the same final book, tattered but still bound like the others.

It gleams as if having anticipated them. And of all candidates, Wonder and Malice shouldn’t have underestimated the star-granted power of these books. Yes, they had formed a trap at the hands of the Fate Court.

But that’s not all.

“Itisa trail,” Wonder breathes.

She glances at Malice, who shrugs. “What the hell do we have left to lose?”

She picks up the brittle yet bright tome. The text sparkles, random passages and sentences highlighting, becoming more saturated than the rest, standing out to reveal…a legend.

Wonder scans the contents, with Malice reading over her shoulder. Their heads bank upward at the same time, reaching the same conclusion. A flicker of hope sprouts in her womb, because this is it.

“This is…,” she begins.

“…the way to win,” he finishes.

It’s the answer they have been looking for. The solution to their expedition, the way to balance fate and free will. And the answer is so obvious, so simple that her mouth lifts into a teary grin despite the desolation.

Malice’s lips crook, mirroring her smile. His eyes drift past her as the sound of rubble shifting draws his attention. Wonder stiffens, sensing the aura of disillusion just as Malice detects the aura of rage.

Horror floods his gaze. He seizes Wonder’s waist and spins her around, the rotation cut off by a clean whoosh of air.

Malice jerks hard into her. His body snaps, caving like a bowstring. He stares at Wonder, his nails digging into her hips as if she’s the only thing holding him upright.

Confused, Wonder searches his dazed features. One of her palms rests on his lower spine, where thick fluid leaks over her knuckles. It’s a slow-drip—from the arrowhead lancing clear into his back, a shot meant for her.

Its tip protrudes from Malice’s chest, right through his heart.

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The weapon is made of lava rock, ejected from the longbow of a superior: a shot that can pierce.

Poppy red coats the arrowhead, ravines drizzling like paint down Malice’s torso and puddling where Wonder’s navel presses against his. From there, the fluid weeps through her blouse and pants, spreading into wide blooms.

The projectile vanishes at last, reappearing clean in its ruler’s quiver. At which point, three entities drop to the ground.

The first is the lava archery, the longbow sliding from the ruler’s hands, his slanted brows flattening in shock, because it isn’t every day that a superior fatally wounds an inferior, be the victim an exile, or a rebel, or an archer. In fact, it’s never happened during the reign of this Court.

The Hollow Chamber is a ruin, and anarchy abounds, and so the god had sought retribution. Yet his face goes slack, horrified by his own fury. It’s one thing to fire in defense of oneself, of the Peaks, of their world. It’s another to strike an unarmed archer in the back, a young one who’s less than two-hundred years old.

The second entity to topple is the book in Wonder’s grasp. Because Malice crumples, she needs both hands in order to balance him against her. As a result, the glowing volume hits the debris, a beacon spotlighting them.

It takes Wonder a second to process his lack of balance, her sloppy grip, and the blood sprayed across her clothes and face. “Malice…?”

His eyes roam hers, awash in affection, the ashen irises beginning to dull.

Terror seizes her sternum, fear splitting her mouth open. “Malice!”

The third entity to fall is him. She yelps when he resists her hold and plummets harder into her. They collapse to the floor, huddling above the wreckage.

He slumps in her lap, his head bolstered by the crook of her arm, more red dribbling from his lips. Frantic, Wonder mops blood from his chin and chest, but there’s so much, too much, and it just won’t stop.

Whimpering, she rips the sleeve of her blouse, her panicked movements failing to staunch the hemorrhage. “No!” she pleads through her teeth. “Malice, no!”

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