Circle of Ashes (Wish Quartet Book 2)

by Elise Kova

  Snow’s wandering, barely-there touch finally made it to her face; his palm gently, much too gently, rested against her cheek. She leaned into it without thought or care, shuddering against the feel of his thumb stroking an almost tender line across her cheekbone.

  “I can never seem to muster reason when you are around. You make me reckless,” he whispered, and she wasn’t sure if she was meant to have heard it, but it settled like a comforting weight around her heart regardless. She knew all too well how he felt.

  It took much too long for Jo’s brain to send word for her own hand to rise, to touch back, but when it did, it found a secure place at the nape of Snow’s neck. She could feel his hair brushing against her fingers, felt the slight shift beneath them with each breath he took. If she closed her eyes, she swore she could feel his heartbeat somewhere deep underneath.

  She wondered if he could feel hers too. As erratically as it was beating, a heavy thud of rhythm against her ribcage, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  It wasn’t until their noses were practically touching that Jo realized they’d been leaning in, gravitating towards each other like being pulled out of orbit. His lips were so close, all she’d have to do was—

  There was no way of knowing who finally covered that last bit of distance, not that it mattered. All that mattered, the only thing in the whole of eternity, was the feel of Snow’s lips finally, finally pressed against her own.

  It was like an electrical current arcing across the ether to strike in an impossible way. Like a conduit finally slotting into place.

  Finally, finally, finally.

  Jo kissed back with a hungry desperation, a whine clawing up the back of her throat as she pressed herself against him. She would probably be embarrassed about that later, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. And with the way Snow’s arm wrapped tight around her waist, pulling her flush against him, she figured the desperation was mutual anyway.

  When they broke apart, panting and staring deep into each other’s eyes, it wasn’t in panic and regret, worry and shame. As they held each other’s gaze, Jo’s cheeks flushing at the sight of his kiss-swollen lips, it was to the feel of something wholly unexpected. Something infinitely better.

  His arms wrapped tightly around her waist; steely eyes stared back at her in something she didn’t dare hope was fondness that ran deeper than mere lust. On his lips, a soft smile just for her.

  When Jo leaned back in for another kiss, heart soaring and giddiness bubbling up in silent laughter, Snow followed.

  Chapter 22

  A Moment of Peace

  WANTS SHIFTED IN her faster than Jo could think, or even breathe.

  She wanted him. She had him.

  She wanted his lips. She had them.

  She wanted his skin under her hands—well, that was still a work in progress.

  From one moment to the next, she simultaneously wanted everything now and wanted to wait for it in blissful agony just as she had waited for this singular moment for what now felt like a millennium.

  Her eyes slitted open, revealing a brief glimpse of his face. Long lashes covered the curve of his cheek, taking up most of her vision. In her periphery she could see his mouth moving to meet hers in a new and entirely delightful way.

  His fingers buried themselves in her hair, pulling with need but tempered with a gentleness that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted. Again, shifting wants. She was somewhere between “perfectly sated” with mere kisses and “rip off my panties.” Snow seemed to make the decision for her when he pulled away.

  Snow’s usually red lips had deepened in color to bright cherry, his usually ghostly cheeks flushed with color. Jo was certain she looked much the same. For several long moments, they just breathed, and stared.

  Without warning he practically dove for her. His hands on her hips, pulling them to him. Jo felt his entire length from toe to chest and she swelled with a startled breath to close any remaining gaps.

  Jo wasn’t exactly sure when they’d made it onto the bed, but she knew now that it was possibly the most comfortable thing in the known or unknown universe. A veritable eternity of hours slept on it had worn it in a way that was simply perfect—not lumpy or awkwardly dipping, but the sort of cloud you sunk into to find support below.

  Then again, the bed could’ve been a piece of plywood, all splinters and rough edges, and Jo still would’ve found it comfortable due entirely to the man who stared down at her—hands on either side of her head, one knee between her thighs digging pleasantly into their apex with every shift.

  She trailed her fingers over his face, trying to commit every curve to memory.

  “You’re not going to kick me out now, are you?” Jo was glad her whisper still had strength to it, even if her knees didn’t. Good thing she was lying down.

  “I think we’re past that.”

  “Glad you can finally see sense.”

  “As if that were ever a question?” He arched an eyebrow.

  “You had me wondering.”

  The words broke the spell they’d fallen under, but they did not erase its effects. Snow eased away, shifting onto his back at her side. They were still flush against each other and he did not object when she shifted to place one of his arms behind her head.

  For several long moments, neither said anything further, the daze of the kiss seeping into them like oil to a wick that would burn for hours to come.

  “I want you to know that since the Society’s founding I haven’t—”

  “I know.” Jo cut him off. She didn’t need to hear him say that he didn’t usually take people to bed. He was very obviously not the type, so her question trended in the opposite direction. “Why now? Why me?”

  She felt the pillow that was his arm shift as he turned his head, so Jo turned hers as well, studying his face.

  “That’s a difficult question.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He chuckled. “Why you?” he repeated, more thoughtful. Jo hung on his words, her chest tightening oddly in suspense. “I’ve been alive. . . for more years than it’s possible to count—especially with shifting time and jumping realities. In all that time, I was waiting, searching. So when I found what it was I’d been waiting for, there was—is—no question.”

  The idea was almost profound, and gave her pause. Was she the same? She’d never felt so instantly head-over-heels with anyone else. Even if she wouldn’t dare call it love so quickly (lust did not equal love), there was a connection there—how did Nico phrase it? A foundation, unlike one she’d ever known. He was an enigma that felt like everything she’d ever wanted.

  “You flatter me.” She half shrugged and looked back at the mural on the ceiling to take off some of the pressure of being the sole focus. Stars dotted a canvas of swirling blues with ethereal god-like figures dancing among them. Jo tilted her head, slightly; it was almost as if she could remember a story that these very images depicted. Like a vague childhood tale. . .

  Snow said nothing else, and Jo was inclined to leave it be. It didn’t matter why he wanted her. It just mattered that he did.

  “I don’t want this to change anything.” Damn Wayne for getting in her head now of all times. It was Snow’s turn to look at her first. Jo took her eyes off the ceiling and its hidden story to give him a long, hard stare. “With the team, with wishes. I don’t want this—whatever happens, whatever comes of it—to affect anyone but us.”

  Clarity dawned on him and Snow gave a small hum that she took to be affirmation. “It is only about us.”

  “Good.” A smile stretched between her cheeks. She could have her cake and eat it too. Things dared to look like they were improving for her.

  “But to that end. . . you should likely return to them.”

  She’d just said she didn’t want things to change, and her whole heart screamed in protest of leaving his bed. Still, once work was planted in her mind, it was hard to fall back into the bliss she’d lost herself in earlier.


  “The wish, it’s looking positive.” There. Now she’d fulfilled what she said she’d come there for. So it wouldn’t be a lie if Eslar asked later.

  Snow sat, his expression distant. Jo followed suit, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. It was weird to talk about work when they were lying side by side.

  “Is it?” he asked softly.

  “I think the evacuation will be successful, after all.” Jo grabbed his hand. His head turned to her and Snow listened intently as she filled him in on the steps that Wayne and Takako had taken to see the evacuation substantiated. “We’ll reduce the Severity of Exchange, I know it.”

  Pain.

  That was a weird thing to flash through Snow’s eyes and it struck Jo right in the gut, leaving her dazed and breathless.

  “You don’t think we can?” she dared to ask.

  “I hope we can. For all of us.” Snow squeezed her hand tightly.

  “What happens if we don’t?” The infamous question—one Jo couldn’t seem to get an answer to no matter how hard she tried—returned to her. It didn’t matter who she asked, or when, or how. Every time, it was dodged or passed off as a great unknown. And this time was no different. Jo was no fool; there was no way Snow out of all of them didn’t know what would happen.

  “It won’t be good.” There was a deathly weight, as cold as the grave, to his voice.

  “What happens?” Jo repeated, insisted, pushed.

  “Jo—” More pain on his face. “—please, trust me, some things are better left unexplained. But know that I want nothing more than to defend this team—to defend you. It’s all I’ve ever worked for.”

  It wasn’t an answer. But it was the truth, that much she could tell. Still, Jo sighed heavily at being put off again. Snow’s hand rose to her cheek, cupping it thoughtfully.

  “Pray you don’t find out.”

  “That’s easy for you to say when you have all the answers.” Even frustrated and in the dark, she still leaned into his touch. It was sturdy and comforting; it was a lifeline to the truth she so desperately needed.

  “Nothing is easy for me.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  “Careful,” Snow whispered, “or I just may.”

  Despite herself, a smile cracked through the confusion and disappointment of being thwarted yet again. No matter what Snow said, she’d find out the truth eventually. She could be patient for now, especially if she had his touches to tide her over.

  “You’re right, I should go back to the group,” she said, rephrasing his earlier sentiment. Jo eased herself out of the plush bed and stood, her mind gradually returning to the wish.

  “You should.” Snow made no motion from the bed, and Jo could not ignore the way his eyes lingered on her body from heel to head.

  “Should I also. . .” She wasn’t trying to be seductive, which made her feel all the better about herself when pure sex oozed into her voice, spilling over the well of want he’d tapped into with his kisses. “Come back later?” Jo leaned over, both hands on the bedspread, halfway to the man who regarded her somewhere between art and a feast for famine.

  “I should say you shouldn’t.”

  “But you won’t.” Jo loved the way his eyes were glued to her lips as she spoke.

  “But I won’t,” he repeated, enthralled by a hypnotic spell she didn’t know she’d cast.

  “Later, then.”

  He sealed the vow with a kiss.

  The world was under her feet as Jo all but sauntered back to the Four-Way. The wish was going well, she was settling into the Society, and she’d finally cracked the tension with Snow in the best of ways. Jo was already looking forward to the next stretch of time between wishes. With nothing else to do. . . she wondered how much time she could spend in his room before someone noticed.

  Jo was so preoccupied with the lingering blissful dizziness, the pleasant heat that had bubbled from her stomach and into her head, that it took until she had a mug in hand and coffee pot tipped for her to notice the tone of the room.

  Everyone was gathered, huddled on the couches, glued to the television. Jo stared at the news and felt her own jaw go slack right before hot coffee overflowed onto her fingers and her mug shattered against the tile floor.

  Chapter 23

  Plan C

  “WE GAVE THEM everything they needed,” Wayne repeated for what felt like at least the fifth time in the last ten minutes. This time, however, he punctuated it with a harsh kick to the edge of the couch.

  “Wayne,” Eslar chastised, but even the normal tone of his scolding was off, dulled by the somber atmosphere and the second run of playbacks still flashing across the television screen. The banner at the bottom of the screen read,

  Prime Minister Nakamura Denies Scientists’ Claims

  Takako grabbed for the remote, pointing it at the TV and clicking furiously. A nearly identical broadcast popped up; the only difference was the talking head delivering the message.

  “The prime minister has called into question the organization in charge of bringing forward the speculations that what has been deemed by the Japanese government as a cyber-attack on sovereign soil is, in actuality, founded. As of right now, the government’s official stance is that—”

  CLICK.

  “We should not be made to feel afraid by these terrorists. In fact, I have little doubt that they’ve penetrated this so-called ‘lab’ and—”

  CLICK. It didn’t seem to matter how many news channels Takako flipped through, they were all the same.

  “. . . reiterate that the Japanese government does not give heed to influence from any forces beyond our borders.” The prime minister was on, front and center. Takako’s hand lowered slowly. “It is my most sacred duty to keep safe our people and our land and I will not give in to baseless claims grounded in fear and terror.”

  “Wh-why is he doing this?” Jo whispered, getting no answer, and not expecting one to begin with.

  Takako cursed loudly and held up the remote again. CLICK. A new talking head appeared, a new timestamp in the lower corner of the screen. Were they watching re-runs? Or was time slipping away from them like sand in an hourglass, persistently flowing toward their ultimate failure?

  “. . . minister remains tough on terrorism in advance of next month’s election,” the newscaster said, matter-of-factly. “His stance has earned him four points in the polls almost overnight.”

  “An election.” It was all so bloody clear now. The vague memory of a newscaster mentioning polls and points stuck out in her mind. It had always been about a stupid election.

  “A damned election.” Wayne growled, running a hand through his hair until the slicked-back quaff was completely disheveled. All manner of the man’s usual bravado and affectations from his forgotten era had vanished, replaced instead with timeless frustration and rage. “Is there no end to the greed of politicians?”

  “He’s. . . he’s risking everyone dying, so he can win an election?” It was phrased as a question, but Jo already knew the answer. Wayne had said it himself: there was no end to the greed.

  “And to save face,” Takako spoke without even turning. Jo didn’t even think they’d known she was there until that moment. “If he backs down now, he’ll have to admit he was wrong, and that he wasted precious time, which could mean the lives of his people.”

  “That’s because he did!” Jo couldn’t help herself. “What more does he want? We gave them proof that the evacuation wasn’t wrong.” That I wasn’t wrong, her mind betrayed her, finishing. Yes, this was personal. This was her redemption slipping by for the sake of a man’s pride.

  “Well what more are we supposed to do?” Wayne asked.

  Jo wasn’t the only one who winced at those words. Wayne was right. They’d put all of their cards on the table with Samson’s upgraded seismograph. What were they supposed to do now?

  Eslar took the remote from Takako with surprising delicacy, muted the TV, and leaned back in his chair. For a long moment, the onl
y sounds in the room were Wayne’s footsteps pacing across the tile.

  Samson was staring off into space, shaking hands fidgeting almost desperately. As usual, he held a small trinket that Jo couldn’t identify, though she could suddenly see with new ease how to break it, if she wanted. At the look of pain on Samson’s face, however, it felt as though she was the one breaking.

  Nico sat next to Takako on the couch, an arm wrapped around her shoulders—not that the woman seemed to notice. Her head was buried in her hands, whole body hunched over and trembling as if trying to hold back a sob of emotion that could have been frustration or sorrow.

  And Jo. . . continued to stand where the sickening realizations had left her, a puddle of coffee and shards of ceramic beneath her sneakers. She could barely think, let alone move, but regardless, her mind screamed to do something, do something, do something—

  “I’m sorry.” Samson’s voice, barely above a whisper, sounded like a gunshot for the way everyone’s attention jerked in his direction. The craftsman’s hands had stilled, though they clutched at his trinket so fiercely that his knuckles looked all but seconds away from bursting out of his skin. “I’m. . . I’m sorry, I. . . I. . . I should have triple checked the specs or I should have. . . Or I should have—”

  Samson’s breathing picked up, and instantly Jo was reminded of Yuusuke, of how occasionally the stress would get to him, manifesting in ways beyond his control. It usually had to do with his family, or a job gone wrong, but it always ended the same. Jo could see the same symptoms of a panic attack rearing its ugly head in Samson, and, much like she would have with Yuu, she was across the room in a flash.

  “Hey, hey.” Jo winced internally at how her voice shook, hoping it wouldn’t diminish the comfort she was trying to give. Not that it would be enough. The tense line of Wayne’s shoulders and Eslar’s closed off expression said as much. Takako’s crumbling demeanor, beyond any comfort at all—despite the way Nico continued to rub soothing circles into her back. So Jo focused on the only thing she could do, because if she didn’t do something, the weight of her own hopelessness would crush her too.