Page 50 of Courting War
It had to be because Cecile was consumed with horrible images after another. Some were her greatest fears made manifest, but others still were memories in the flesh. Memories like being kidnapped and trafficked as a kid. Memories of Andromache visiting her childhood home.
Happy memories, sad memories, and memories yet to be made. Of her defeating the Sacrifice and living a god-blessed life of riches and glory no one human should possess. Another image was simply of her Strings of Life braided to another—to a god. Even more strangely, another depicted her marrying that same god.
An impossibility.
Falling in love with a god was illegal.
“I have plans for your little servant,” the words trilled off Death’s tongue. “I designed her games, after all.”
“If you kill her, I will destroy yo—”
“Look at you caring for a mere human.”
“Havyn,” Theo growled. “Don’t—”
“What are you going to do? You’re mortal.” Havyn squeezed her sister’s blistered arm. “And fragile.”
Theo sucked in a pained breath and pinched her eyes shut. It hurt. It hurt so fucking much to be human. It hurt so fucking much to be so damn fragile. She slowly pulled in air; her lungs tight and burning. Then she opened her eyes and devoured Havyn with her gaze.
“Oh, calm down. I don’t plan on killing her . . . or even harming her.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Havyn raised an ink-colored brow, her lips twisting into a sneer. “Perhaps I’m showing her the truth. Or maybe I already did.”
Havyn pointed again at the mirror with one of her long slender feet. A scene played out as Cecile watched.
A deep horrible sound sang from the surface. The sound of regret. The sound of death—a death that was forever carved into Theo’s heart.
A woman wailed, and chains clicked against slick marble, the sound haunting and foreboding.
A sound that had been burned into Theo’s soul.
“No, please, please, I beg you, don’t do this,” Andromache pleaded, her voice imbued with a river of devastation. “Please.”
A ghost version of Nefeli towered in front of a limp, blood-coated body strapped and dangling from the ceiling by magic ropes.
Poison and Harvest stood nearby, forcing a chained Andromache to watch as her mother tortured Devereaux—her mortal lover.
“Theo, please, do something,” Andromache screamed, her eyes anchored to a ghost Theodra’s hollow face.
A face that was empty of all emotions. A hollow echo. An endless emptiness that would never be filled—especially not at this moment. “I can’t do anything.” Theodra blinked, her eyes fastened to the tortured boy. “It’s the law.”
The law. A god shall never fall in love with a mortal—long-lived or human.
“Please, end it,” Andromache begged.
Theodra cocked her head like a raven examining roadkill. She’d never looked more like a bird. Liquid darkness leaked from her eyes. Eyes that shifted between her sister and her sister’s lover, a decision stirring in them.
The exact moment of the decision was accompanied by Theo conjuring a sword. A sword forged from shadow.
Without hesitation, she took the broad sword in two hands and swung, swiftly and nearly painlessly decapitating Devereaux, his head falling off and rolling to Andromache.
Andromache keened and clanged the chains against the floor, picking up the head and clinging it to her breast. The scene went on for what seemed like forever, and all the other gods left Andromache there—all save Theodra and Havyn.
In a rare and almost touching moment, all three triplets were aligned with one aim. They formed a tableau of grief and twisting rage.
None of them spoke, and only continual wails cut through the night.
