Page 71 of Ember and Ash

Silas picks up his burger. “I’ll let Micah explain.”

I don’t like this response, but I respect it and him. Micah trusts Silas for a reason, and his zipped lips speak of loyalty and honesty, two things I value greatly. Two things I think I’ve known less of in my life than I ever imagined, and the reality of that truth is a wrecking ball to my heart. I don’t even know if I can really trust Oliver, and I envy Micah the trust he shares with Silas, and deservingly so, it seems.

At least at first impression.

I push away from the table and hurry toward the stairs in pursuit of Micah. “All the way down,” Silas calls after me. “Are you going to eat your fries?”

I ignore him and focus on pursuing Micah, but I hear him mumble, “She can spellcast more if she wants them.”

I’d laugh if this were another place and time, but right now, finding Micah and understanding what Silas’ answer means for him and me, for all of us, and for the world, for that matter, is all that matters.

It’s not long before I surmise that “down” means way, way down, as the winding set of dimly lit steps seems to go on forever. I’d rift to the bottom, but I’m the curious cat who wants to know what’s between here and there, wherever there might be. The first level I pass appears to be rooms and doors, and I think, or rather assume, they lead to bedrooms. The second level is an office and den with a rustic wood and steel desk and wooden chairs. The third, a small library with cozy chairs and interesting paintings of people I’d really like to examine later.

For now, though, I push past the floor and disappear further and further into the lower half of the staircase that must extend well below sea level. After what feels like an eternity, I’m at the bottom, walking through a hallway with candlelit sconces guiding my path toward a massive, heavy-looking door.

It opens upon my approach, as if it knows me, as if it intends to invite me inside the room beyond. I don’t question the generosity of the house, assuming, of course, that it’s aiding my mission, leading me toward Micah. I step under the archway and bring a giant octagon lit by fire-breathing sconces with silver and gold artillery glinting from the walls where it hangs into view. But it’s Micah that holds my attention. It’s Micah who’s standing in the center of the ring, a blade in his hand and a look in his eyes that is pure murder.

A smart person would turn and run away.

I step past the archway, and the door shuts behind me.

The Sacred Book of Nephilim

The blade of a warrior is as sharp as his hunger for blood. The magic of a warrior is only as pure as the warrior’s soul.

Chapter thirty-five

The lights inside the octagon flicker and steady, much like my heart sputtering about in my chest, a butterfly with clipped wings. Micah still stands in the center of the room, his sword glinting with such clarity it seems as if sunshine splays against the blade, and I wonder if it will burn a path through to my heart. Perhaps that’s what the news Silas brought has told him—that there’s no option but to kill me, to sharpen his blade on my flesh and blood. And still, illogically perhaps, I’m not afraid of Micah. If my future is to die before I can become something dark and destructive, I’m quite clear on the fact that I’ll find my ending in this land, never allowed to leave. Fighting it is a worthless effort, and as my grandfather used to say, acceptance of what is already lost is sometimes the only way forward. But maybe, just maybe, if I accept this life is not for me, there will be another. If I don’t, perhaps all that will exist is dirt, or worse, the flames of Hell.

The lights are flickering again, as if responding to the rush of my adrenaline, but I crush my nerves and close the space separating me from the king of this land. I stop in front of him. Light unfurls over his strong features, the essence of his power in his male beauty and dominance stealing my breath.

His magic hums in the air, circling me, and I reach for it, sending little tentacles of myself out to touch it, and it doesn’t push back. It doesn’t hold me captive. It doesn’t threaten me. And even though Micah grips the sword snugly in his palm, even knowing one flick of his wrist could easily kill me, I stand tall and strong.

Silence pulses between us, thick and filled with implications, and it’s me that pierces the depths of the wall it creates. “I’ve said it, but I’ll say it again: I’d rather die than become like Jeremy.”

“But you’d rather live?”

“Of course I would. All living beings fight for life.”

A sword appears in my hand, and he softly commands, “Then fight.”

My disbelief and anger are a whip snapping and cracking around us, my own magic shoving his away, freeing my personal space—a show of my power, the power I’m coming to know and shelter inside. I’ve never held a sword in my hand in all my life, and he’d have me fight for my life with one now? He wants me to fight. Why? So he can feel better about killing me? That’s the kind of bullshit I will not die beneath.

I throw the sword and spellcast it away. “You want to kill me, just do it.”

“Just do it?” he challenges. “I thought you were fighting for your life and what’s right.” He starts swinging the blade with the swoosh and sway of expert experience, walking around me as he does. I whip his direction as he reaches my back, but he keeps moving. I track him until we’ve completed a full circle. And when his blade is suddenly at my throat and the sword has magically reappeared in my hand, I’m not sure if it’s me or him that’s made it happen.

Cold steel presses to my skin, and I can feel the tiny tear in my flesh, feel a trickle of blood trailing down my throat. “Should I kill you, or do you want to fight now, Ember? Because one thing I know for certain is if you’re too weak to fight me, you’re too weak to have ever welcomed the light. The darkness would have always owned you. It already does.”

There’s a burn in my chest mimicked by the burn in my palm where the hilt of the sword rests. I step backward and lift the weapon in my hand, and I’m not sure how it happens, but I’m clanging the blade against his with skills I should not possess. I can feel the magic dancing along my skin, igniting my muscles and my movements.

We battle.

Our well-strategized steps cover the expanse of one side of the octagon, swords dodging, diving, and grinding against the other. But when I grow a bit too confident in my skills, I pay the price. My back and shoulders crash into the wall behind me, and his blade is once again pinching my throat. My heart lurches, and I rift away, appearing behind him, my blade in the center of his back.

His laughter is deep and rough, and I blink, and he’s rifted. He’s standing in front of me all over again, his sword crossing my sword, his eyes alight with a mix of mischief and approval. “That’s the way to win. Keep going.”

I hate how much I crave his compliments when my throat drips of the blood his sword has drawn, and I smash my weapon into his—anger, frustration, and magic exploding from someplace deep and enraged. The wolf inside me roars to life, and it’s invigorating and powerful. Micah is all about secrets, secrets related to me and my life. I have a right to know what he knows. But beating him is apparently above my skill set, magic or not. I end up against yet another wall, and before I can react, he’s flung away my sword, retrieved my blade, and pressed it to my throat.