Page 81 of Thorns from the Fall

Realization sets in, and a calming sort of terror descends upon me. When I take a deep breath and close my eyes, all I see is Roman. I can say goodbye to him before Agnarr tears us apart—and that’s all I can ask for after every fucked up thing I’ve done. And if it’s my best friend, I’ll die, and Roman will finally be free. It will be a kindness, I think, but then a little voice inside my head asks me if I still believe that after last night.

The elevator stops climbing, and I wait for the doors to open.

“Why aren’t you answering your fucking phone?” comes Nico’s voice and a sob tears up my throat. Hale is safe, and Roman can’t save me.

Nico isn’t a born vampire, and he’s only a few centuries old from what Roman has said. He won’t be much use—even if he wants to help me, which I doubt.

I don’t want to die—not yet.

“Zuul, go,” I say, pointing to the elevator. Agnarr chuckles as Nico freezes in place—mouth dropped open as he takes in the scene before him. I’m standing barefoot in leggings and an oversized band t-shirt, hair a disaster, with my own gun pressed to my temple. Zuul moves past Agnarr, head dipped low. His ears are folded and his tail hangs between his legs—but he doeswhat I tell him. “Tell Hale I’m sorry,” I say, voice thick. Because while I might not be able to shoot my head off at the moment, I’m sure my demise is imminent.

I have always thought of death as an old friend. Ushering loved ones away from me to an easier existence, it has always hovered at the edges of my mind, eager for me to join those who went before. But now, I know the truth.

Death is an ancient enemy, eager to peck at the scraps left behind by someone destined for an immortal life. Offering nothing while taking everything, I don’t know why I ever thought I would find serenity in the void. There is no peace in the promised nowhere. Only defeat.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself, it’s that I’ll stick around just to claim a victory. Over Bjorn and his coven, over Agnarr, and over that dark, vacuous pull to the edge of oblivion.

And perhaps, if I allow myself to dream, over Roman’s heart.

Nico doesn’t move as the elevator doors shut, Zuul sitting calmly beside him. The numbers on the digital panel descend, and I can breathe. My hand begins to shake, and Agnarr gives me a pitying expression.

“It is easy when done like this,” he says, eyes moving to the gun. “Quick and relatively painless.”

Compared to what Agnarr can likely do to me, I’m sure it would be preferable. I’m so fucked, and I’m not ready. I needed a plan. I needed help. I needed more than what I have.

I need more time.

“Outside,” I say, voice thready. “For the mess.”

Backing through the door onto the balcony, I wait for Agnarr to understand what I’m doing. He merely follows, shiny shoes landing steadily as he takes each step. It’s strange to see his otherworldly beauty and know I’m his child. I get my height from him. My blonde hair is darker than his, but it certainlydidn’t come from Cynthia. She was responsible for my existence, and he’ll be the one to snuff it out. It’s oddly poetic.

When my ass hits the railing I’d balanced on the night before, everything goes quiet. My blood rushes through my veins, pounding against my skull, and I know this is so fucking stupid. But I’ve never been anything more than a hopeless little fool.

“Do you need me to do it for you?” he asks, and I don’t answer. I lower my gun and tuck it into the front of my waistband. “What are you doing?”

He’s halfway across the balcony when I throw myself backwards off the building.

30

ROMAN

“They don’t makewater hot enough, do they?” Remy asks from the living room when I come in the back door.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says. Margot stayed with him last night, and her car is still here. I don’t see her anywhere, but Remy seems fine. The dark circles beneath his eyes won’t ever disappear, I’m pretty sure, yet he gives me a smile that seems genuine. I’m relieved—until he opens his mouth. “You smell like Margot’s shampoo and sex.”

I stop, staring at him down the length of my house. I slept nearly all day at Margot’s apartment before taking the longest shower of my life, and the sun has already started to set. Remy turns off the television, casting himself in darkness, before strolling into the dining room. Hands in his pockets, he hangs his head, and I feel like a piece of shit.

“Listen, it was?—”

“You smelled like Margot’s shampoo, sex, and cigarettes the last time. I thought you quit smoking?”

“I did.”

“Gwyn made you start back up?” he asks, and I wish he wasn’t so obviously confident about the identity of the womanI’m fucking. I imagine this is what a teenager feels like being caught by a cop in the park while steaming up the back windows of a shitty little beater.

But worse—definitely worse.

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