Page 119 of Wicked Prince of Curses
I snapped my head up, barely able to see her through my tears.
“Ellie…”
“Titombwe,” she whispered. “But the Talons are gone.”
My eyes fell shut. My hearts pounded in my chest with terror. In warning. I took a shuddering breath.
“I’ll get dressed.”
I pushed to my feet in a zombified stupor, unable to clear my vision due to my endless tears. A tremor shook my bones as I wordlessly turned from my friends, entered my room, and closed the door.
As if in a daze, I washed myself, got dressed, and grabbed my sandals without bothering to check my appearance in the mirror.
In the hall of the wingtower, I met up with the rest of Seventh Choir. All of them wore long frowns. Kazemir and Daelun’s eyes were blazing.
“They did this on purpose,” Kazemir seethed.
I flinched, so unused to him having any kind of verbal response.
“Sending us to enjoy ourselves in the Citadel only to bring us together and publicly crush us the next dawn. The Farasees are sick.”
Seven star gates surfaced in the hall as if on cue. I felt ill.
“See you on the other side,” I said to no one in particular. Then I flew through the star gate, until it spat me out into the massive arena, already filled with millions.
I searched up and down for my family, trying to find where they were sitting so I could be with them. I squinted, hunting for any sign of starry ethèr bleeding out as a sign of the Anathelles. I could find none.
An eery, sinking feeling settled in. As I flew to my seat among Seventh Choir, I realized the difference. The last Titombwe, the angels had been lively. Exuberant. They’d been talking, laughing, dancing.
Not this dawn. As I settled between Ellabeth and Isandra, the stark difference hit me like stones falling in my gut. The angels were as silent as open graves.
Scores of angels filled the arena to the brim. Some even hovered in place because there were no seats left. I noticed the Shifters weren’t present. None of the Dragèth or Pagali were present. There were no Faerèth either. No Neriphim or Taetàn Giants. Come to think of it, there weren’t even Gods. There were only angels in the arena, mainly of Seraphim rank.
My mouth turned to sandpaper.
I sat quietly between my friends, waiting out the start of Titombwe. My nerves were shot as I glared at the dais, waiting for someone, anyone, to get this started.
Granmanmi Asarah finally surfaced, floating to the center of the glass-laden dais, her eyes a churning pool of dark purple storms.
“I know that look.”
Seventh Choir, and several from the other Choirs in Incense Order, turned to look me, eyes widening.
“Mhm,” Ellabeth hummed, studying Granmanmi. “She’s pissed.”
“And is about to make someone pay,” I finished.
I had a feeling I knew who her target was. I stepped into my mind, poking around the veil between Quazar and I. The veil was sealed tight, our connection cut off. I could still sense his shadows, but that’s as far as he’d let me go.
Whatever he was dealing with, he’d pushed me completely out so he could deal with it alone. I worried my bottom lip. Began bouncing my knee, unable to sit entirely still.
“Wings high, angels of Ouanaviel.”
“Wings high!” the angels chorused.
I didn’t join in. Neither did Seventh Choir.
I studied Granmanmi. She looked perfectly serene. Her ivory robes had been pressed to perfection. Her hair was beautifully done. She even wore a small, pleasant smile.
