Page 158 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Calista stays a few feet away, talking to her friend, Fleur, and glancing in my direction. She makes sure I have a clear view of her. That way, I can feel when Desdemona’s necklace is hers and we seal the prophecy shut.
Calista is waiting until the dancing starts, when everyone will be moving and looking for a partner. I wait for that moment too, passing the time by drinking up everyone else—intoxicated by strangers’ blood streams.
I count the seconds. Lucian approaches. It’s surprising; he isn’t angry. He isn’t seeking retribution. His intentions seem nearly pure. He’s dressed in a suit even more ornate than Calista’s gown—royal blue with embroidered beads and a glistening coat adorned in stone.
“Wendy,” he says, meeting my gaze. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
Fleur drags Calista across the dance floor. I take a step forward, following them, but Lucian steps in line with me. There’s no getting out of this conversation.
“I didn’t mean to disappoint,” I say.
Lucian clasps his hands behind his back, looking ahead. “No,” he mutters. “I came to apologize. It was never my intention for matters to escalate to such a degree.”
“Which matters? Desdemona? Or Azaire’s death?”
An arrow of guilt impales my heart. It takes away every secondhand shot of alcohol.
“What did you do, Lucian?” I ask—a question, but I mean it as a demand.
He shies away, lowering his gaze and seeking to avoid mine.
I grab his forearm, forcing him to meet my eyes. Forcing myself to feel every splinter in his shattered soul.
“Everytime I mention Azaire,youfeel at fault,” I say.
Lucian’s jaw clenches, and I dig the tips of my gloves into his skin.
“Tell me,” I demand.
He shakes his head—wishing to end the conversation but wanting to rid the arrow in his chest more.
“Have you ever sworn to protect someone with your life?” he asks. He isn’t looking for an answer. “Tellmehow you’d feel if that person died in your arms.”
The words don’t absolve his guilt, like he hoped they might. It makes it worse. He tugs his arm from my grasp, lowering his head once more.
“Excuse me,” he mutters as he walks away.
I watch him go.
Azairediedin his arms. It’s no wonder he feels this way.
Should I be feeling this way? Grief, instead of anger? Or, do I already feel both in separate ways?
Grief has turned to anger. Anger has turned to vengeance. There’s one thing to do—and whether it fixes this feeling or not, at least I’ll know I’ve done all I could.
I turn away from Lucian’s retreating form, searching the room for Calista. There’s many heads of blonde hair—none of them the princess’.
The panic only seems to kick in when I can’t find her. My head whips through the room, searching in every direction. Each time I see a yellow gown, I sigh in relief.
That relief only lasts moments, at best.
Calista is nowhere to be found.
Then the screaming starts.
Around me, the students rush. A blur of ball gowns and cries whip past—fear and frenzy pounding at my mind like a rock. I clutch my temples, trying to stay on my feet.
“Arcane!” they shout. “Arcane!”
