Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Tristan stiffens up, taken aback with surprise. Right hand …?
“Welcome back to your former position. See to those nurses.”
After a moment’s bewilderment, Tristan comes to, gives her a nod, then sees himself out of the room at last, stopping only by a table by the door, where he gently sets down Markadian’s bowtie.
Tristan can’t shake the feeling of weightlessness as he walks. The feeling that all of this has fallen into place so easily. Too easily. The drab halls. The lackluster lighting. The rough edges and chipped paint on the walls. The lingering stench of fire and death, even so far away from the banquet hall. Every inch of the House, now bathed in smoke. Can Ashara’s kindness be trusted?
Or is this simply a situation of “keep your enemies close”?
Tristan sits on a bed in the donation room after the nurses are gathered, ordered, then sent away toward Markadian’s chambers with the blood. Task complete, he stares at the undecorated hall nearby, the cheerless infirmary, the bare walls. The longer Tristan stares, the more he feels this sense in his gut, like something big and significant is ending, like the credits of a sad and crushing film are rolling before his eyes, a feeling like grief but so much worse, all of it made apparent by the absence of Markadian’s illusions.
And the sight of his pathetic, broken body in that bed.
Ashara struggling to be brave in front of him.
The silence of the surviving directors, still in the banquet hall.
Tsuki cradling the lifeless Peter, the two of them constantly bickering and hateful for years, now joined in a moment of frozen sadness, all the time they could have made up for, stolen away, all the things they could have said, all the apologies …
Much like Tristan’s last moment with Kyle. Holding him in the art gallery. Smelling him. Feeling him. Praying there’s still a part deep inside Kyle that feels a trace of love for Tristan—just a trace will do, a trace will be enough, it’s better than nothing at all.
He can live with a trace.
“I followed the bus as long as I was able.”
Tristan looks up. The shadowy figure of Wendy sits in a nook in the wall where an illusionary window usually lives. Her eyes are obscured by her hood, though a silhouette of the pretty, youthful face she projects when standing in front of officials like Markadian remains. Tristan wonders why that aspect of her is visible tonight.
“The mother and daughter have succeeded in their efforts,” she goes on coolly. “A warding spell is now in place that obscures the location of the town from anyone looking for it. Even me.”
Tristan tries to imagine what that looks like. Do you mean you will be unable to see them? To know if they are safe?
“Yes. An unfortunate side effect. Unless you can employ the help of abler witches to see through such a shroud.” Wendy slides like black silk from the former windowsill to the bed across from Tristan. “There was a complication.”
Could you please lie and say there wasn’t?
“No. The complication is that one Feral followed them. The one with the sword. He made his way onto the bus and took a life. Not Kyle, Kaleb, or Raya. I tried not to intervene, as you ordered, but the situation was dire, and I calculated that you would have approved of my disobedience. I resorted to a desperate measure.”
He dreads to hear the measure. What did you do?
“I had detected a powerful being on that same highway—the only being within my range of power that could match the Feral in both ferocity and strength. A being who was still wandering in those sands, aimless, lost to his own nightmares.”
Tristan realizes it at once. You mean Brock? He was still—?
“Yes.”
He slips off the bed. You were able to communicate with him?
“I regret to say, I had to make my true form known to him.” Even in the amorphous shadow of her face, Tristan sees her eyes narrow with discomfort—or whatever sensation she experiences that Tristan can loosely interpret as discomfort. “He swiftly took care of the Feral, as I knew he would. Then I followed the bus until the warding spell stopped me. It is done. Kyle. Kaleb. Raya. All are inside the town. Their conditions: unknown.”
Tristan looks away. He tries to picture the scene. To imagine how horrifying it must have been for them all. To have narrowly escaped such a scary situation here with Mance and the Ferals, only to face a worse one on the road. A battle for their lives.
And Tristan will never know its final outcome.
Brock. He turns back to her. Where is he?
“His father’s suite at the Scarlet Sands. He has been sitting in a bathtub for hours, perfectly still, neither moving nor blinking. Do you wish for me to take you to him?”