Page 115 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“Wendy?” Her voice is muffled through the door, and I sit up.
Azaire’s hand rests on my thigh as I wrap his jacket around my torso. “One moment!” I call through the door.
“Is that Desdemona?” Azaire asks.
“Yeah,” I say, a little breathless, while I tug my pants over my hips. “I think.”
I know.
“Okay.” The word is light on his tongue, but it lands heavy in my chest.
The surface is calm, almost careless, but beneath it, I feel the pull. He feels he owes her something.
I turn to him, meeting his gaze. “What is it?”
“Lucian,” is all he says at first. “He thinks she’s connected to the monster attacks.”
I narrow my eyes at Azaire. “What doyouthink?”
He shrugs. “I think Lucian is intelligent but sometimes shortsighted.”
“Sounds about right.” I nod, leaning down and kissing his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Azaire smiles, nodding once. “Tomorrow.”
Then I’m out the door.
Desdemona stands at the entrance to Azaire’s room, ready to knock again when I walk past her.
“Follow me,” I mutter, walking fast.
Her mentioning the prophecy in front of anyone in this suite is a risk I can’t take.
This is between me, her, and Calista.
Desdemona follows, her fear trailing close behind. But beneath it, something else pulses. It flickers at the edge of my senses, a close hum, like a bee brushing past my ear. It crawls over my skin but remains just out of reach.
I lead her to my favorite corner of the garden, tucked between the academy’s outer walls and the edge of the woods. It’s a mostly desolate place. In all my years at the academy, I’ve never seen another student here.
There are no windows on these academy walls—no prying eyes from the inside can peek out. In the center, the statue of Zola stands, a scale balanced in one hand while the roots of a tree coil around her other arm, anchoring her to nature.
It’s quiet here. Secluded. Grounded. All the reasons this corner feels like mine.
I sit, and Desdemona mimics my movements, looking at me expectantly.
I already know what she wants.
The memory of the prophecy rushes through me like ice trapped beneath my skin, in my veins. I shudder. It either belongs to Desdemona, or she is the catalyst that will make it happen. Either way, the end of the universe will be on her hands.
Unless I can stop it.
I hold my hand behind my back, trying to fight the idea. Torn between resistance and resolve.
The thought is dark in my mind. Like a cloud, coming to take away the sun.
Still, I unbutton my gloves. Slowly, at first, like I’m hoping hesitation will stop me.
A part of me knew. From the moment I channeled the prophecy, I felt it settle in my bones like a verdict. This is the way to stop it.
