Page 126 of Vesuvius

‘Don’t say that.’ Hours ago, when sky still existed beyond storm, Felix had thought the same, that his road had ended. It seemed fine to think then, but hearing Loren say it stung, vinegar over a fresh cut. ‘Never say that.’

Loren shook his head, frantic. ‘I metyouon the mountain. A ghost of you who held your memories, and he told me everything, that if you put the helmet on – but I stopped you. I lied. We were supposed to do this together. I thought . . . protecting you . . .’

He broke off in a coughing fit. Felix shut his eyes briefly, letting the truth sink in. He already knew Loren was keeping the answers he’d learned secret, but the confirmation ached. Felix needed to force this down, separate himself from his emotions as he’d done so many times before, his hurt and anger.

Later, he promised himself.

For once – if they survived this – Felix would let himself feel it all.

‘Felix,’ Loren whispered. He cupped Felix’s face, and Felix’s heart thudded a dull rhythm, beating bruises into his chest. ‘I’m sorry.’

The storm broke.

Felix saw it first in flashes, then in waves.

With any weather event, there’s a moment between the break and the fall, when, suspended in time, the world below waits for the blow. The first patter of rain. The first knock of hail or gust of wind. Felix always liked that period of anticipation, knowing what would happen before it hit home; he could sense the change in the air. He’d tip his chin to the sky and wait to feel cool, clean droplets.

This wasn’t the same.

What started as a distant rumble crashed into an ear-splitting roar, no beginning and no end. Clouds of ash convulsed above. The thread of the moment wound tighter. Tighter still.

Then the sky, held by Atlas’s quaking shoulders, fell.

A black curtain dropped, rolling across the horizon, churning and boiling in a great rolling wave. It swept forward to seek and devour, never to be sated. Thousands of crawling hands. Reaching.

Towards them.

‘Don’t look,’ Felix breathed even as he kept his eyes trained forward.

Loren’s lips were cracked. Felix wanted to press against them still. Press against all of Loren. Their last moments before the darkness hit, tangled together, limb to limb, body to body. Not a terrible way to go.

But Felix was divorced from his flesh, soul torn in two. One half was numb, incapable of thinking past Loren’s harsh breath and hot skin. The other half knew what needed to be done.

The helmet is but a conduit. Felix is the untapped vessel.

He curled a hand around the helmet. This choice still belonged to him.

Loren’s eyes went impossibly wider. ‘Felix, no, don’t—’

Felix held the helmet out. ‘Mercury, help me.’

Then he slammed it over Loren’s head.

His hands had never fumbled. Not once. He suspected there’d be a cost to this stunt. He only hoped he’d live long enough to see it through.

In the instant before the wave crashed, Felix was sure he’d misjudged. Misinterpreted what Servius had said, misunderstood what he’d already known himself – that Felix himself – not the helmet – was the true power. And after all, if this was his helmet by birthright, he’d use it as he saw fit.

Felix couldn’t help the city. But he’d burn himself up to save Loren.

At first, nothing.

Then the helmet was down, and Loren’s mouth opened in a silent scream, and the metal against Felix’s palms lit like a gods-damned sacrificial fire. He bared his teeth through the sear, bracing the helmet as it shook and sang and came to life.

Power shot through his body, a crystal strike. Light brimmed in his chest. Power he’d never known, power that was his alone, power he’d . . . he could . . . he could . . .

Felix could tear the world apart, and he had half a mind to.

But he stared at Loren’s face, familiar and dear, seized in agony and framed by silver wings. Felix felt how Loren’s soul feathered, detached, fell into a plane no one living could cross. The ghost of fingers brushed the pads of Felix’s. A farewell, slipping soft away.

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