Page 170 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I stare at Desdemona with a new meaning, a new life. She’s Ma’s best friend’s daughter, a piece of her.
As we stumble through the halls together, I notice how much of my weight Desdemona is carrying.
I wonder how much she knows.
“Calista can find him,” I say, referring to Lucian. I can feel Calista on campus. Not because of my magic, but because of the favor she granted me. Her power hums in the back of my mind when I’m near.
But the rest of my power isn’t anywhere. I don’t feel it in my mind or my fingertips, and certainly not in my heart. I don’t feelanything.Does that mean it’s gone? Is that what the black blood meant—Desdemona had rewritten my power?
“Calista?” Desdemona asks, regarding my comment about finding Lucian.
“They’re betrothed,” I say. “They share a little of the other’s power.”
“That’s good.” The hollow tone in her voice is easy to recognize—even without power.
“She should be in our suite,” I say, following the invisible thread of power.
“That’s good.”
Then we move in silence, leaving me alone with the boy. My boy.
Leaving me alone when there’s one person I want. One thing I can’t have.
“Do you think Azaire would forgive me?”I ask the boy.“For all I’ve done?”
“I’m certain of it,”he says.
Tears threaten to spill. I nod, relief washing over me momentarily. I want to believe the boy.
But I want something else more.
I close my eyes, meeting the boy in the hallway.“Can you—can you look like him?”I ask, meeting his gaze.“Just for a minute. Just to hold me?”
Physically, I lean my body into Desdemona’s body. Mentally, I lean into the boy.
“It could become a crutch,”the boy responds as I drop my head on his shoulder.“I can’t always be him.”
“You’ve been Xander,”I counter.
“You were not in love with Xander,”the boy says.
Though he quickly morphs into Azaire. Into his blue beanie and gray eyes. His arched nose and chin, sculpted as if from a piece of marble. I hold his face, knowing it isn’t real.
I step in front of him, just holding on.
“I’m sorry, Azaire.”
He shakes his head.“It was never your fault.”
“I know,”I answer.“I know that.”
“Do you, Wendy?”He looks down at me.
My face puckers as I try not to look away.“No.”
Azaire nods with a sigh.“Lucian was right when he said I wouldn’t want more death. But I also wouldn’t want this—for you to feel at fault.”
“If I hadn’t left him—”
