Page 118 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“To keep it safe.” Desdemona’s hand reaches for the outline, anger emanating from her movement. “It’s the last piece I have of her.”
Not a lie, not the whole truth. She’s smarter than I thought.
“Is it the Memorium?”
Desdemona smiles, somehow finding humor in this. “You do know I’m from the septic, right?”
“Answer the question.” Pressure builds behind my eyes. Power surges into my hands.
“No, it’s not the Memorium.”
Desdemona laughs a little, and she’s not scared of the threat of my glowing eyes—my magic. I could pull the truth from her with a thought. Is it possible she’s not hiding anything? The theory would hold weight if it weren’t for the power that builds in her. A tide reaching for the shore.
It feels different than an ordinary Fire Folk. Hot enough that the feeling alone could burn me if I let myself dive into it.
“We don’t get to keep the precious stones; we only mine them,” she spits with an edge to her tone. A clench to her jaw.
“The Memorium is a Soul Stone.”
Desdemona sneers as she replies, “All the more reason I can’t get my grubby hands on it.”
Gods, I’ve annoyed her.
The pressure behind my eyes begins to burn—herburn, her power pressing against me. As if she wants to fight me for the crime of being annoying.
Desdemona stands, turning to walk away as she says, “Thanks for showing me the rest of the prophecy.”
But she’s not very thankful. How could she be?
It’s awful.
Facing the academy, she stops midstep, turning to look into the woods. Fear floods her veins like air—lethally.
“What is it?” I ask.
Desdemona doesn’t turn toward me. Her gaze remains fixed on the distant trees, waiting for something to emerge.
I sit up. What could she possibly be waiting for?
“You should go,” she mutters.
The mental strain is equivalent to a sword fight. She’s sparring with something in the woods—something I can’t feel or see—and she’s desperate for me not to sense it.
Her desperation goes to waste.
The trees rustle, and I flinch. Dark gray shadows cast upon the leaves.
“What’s out there?”
“Nothing,” she lies.
“It’s certainly something, I canfeelyou.”
With her gaze settled in the distance, Desdemona shakes her head.
For good reason, too. Because a dark gray cloud of smoke hoverstowards us.
Chapter 23
