Page 21 of House of the Raven
The thrumming reached a stupefying crescendo.
It can’t be him. It can’t.
Yet, the same glowing figure now stands in the exact same spot it did that day. Father also stands in the same place, shoulders squared, facing what looks like his wife’s murderer. But it can’t be. He’s supposed to be dead.
The air thrums. My ears ring.
I try to peer through the terrible brightness, try to discern who stands within its folds. The shape is no more than a silhouette, but it matches the one in my memory. It feels like the same espiritu with the same attributes, the same signature.
Rage explodes in my chest. This bastardo killed my mother, stole from Amira and me the joy of what used to be a perfect family. And now he’s back, intent on taking what’s left. I won’t allow it.
I rush to Father’s side. He startles at my presence and immediately throws his arm across my chest. “What are you doing? Get back!”
“I can stop him,” I say, my rage boiling over.
“No, you can’t,” he says with certainty.
He knows I can. I did it before. I don’t know how, but I did.
Guardia Bastien joins our side and unsheathes his rapier. His blade isn’t fae-made, so it can’t block espiritu. Still, Father looks relieved, and I can’t lie. I feel the same way.
But all that relief washes away when Amira steps into view from behind the sorcerer.
Father shares my shock. It is evident in the way his entire being seems to wilt, as though all strength has drained out of him in one go.
“Amira, what are you doing?” Father asks, his words a croaky whisper.
“What needs to be done,” she replies.
He shakes his head. “No. This isn’t you. You are… good.”
She scoffs. “And you know that how?”
The knot in my throat threatens to shock me. I struggle to breathe. Amiraisgood. She would never do something like this, which means—
“What have you done to her?!” Father bellows at the sorcerer.
Orys has now stolen my sister, too. But he should have never returned. I may not know or remember how I stopped him before, but I’m going to do it again.
As the thrumming of the sorcerer’s espiritu snaked its way into every corner of my small body, something warm glowed in my chest. Like tendrils of smoke, that warmth moved to encompass the rest of my body until I felt an immense sense of calm and strength suffuse my entire being.
That monster killed my mother, and I will kill him.
This wasn’t an appropriate thought for an eight-year-old. Nonetheless, it felt right.
I stood, abandoning Mother for only a moment.
I will be back. I promise.
Quietly, I stood behind Father as he faced his enemy. Amira wasn’t a concern anymore. She was too paralyzed with fear and grief to try to follow Father’s command anymore.
Father had no weapons. He only had his fury, desperation, and of course, his agility. It was legendary. He was said to have defeated many foes, even after he lost his ability to shift. Though it was against lesser opponents than this one.
He couldn’t confront a sorcerer with only his hands. Standing there so brave and determined to fight, I later realized—once I was old enough to understand matters more deeply—that he wasn’t seeking revenge.
He was seeking death.
Without Mother, the love of his life, he saw no path other than the one she’d been forced to take. In time, I also came to recognize that the love he harbored for my sister and me paled in comparison to his feelings for Mother. We weren’t reason enough for him to want to stay. The knowledge hurt. It still does, but I have never been in love. If I had, maybe I would be able to understand him fully, and I wouldn’t blame him for loving us less.
