My heart thuds against my chest.
“I will never regret you, raindrop.”
I search his eyes. He may as well have said he loves me, because his words have the same effect on me.
He takes my hand and turns it over, placing the necklace he won in the battle in my hand, and then closes my fingers around it. He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead, then drops his hands and backs away from me.
With every inch of space that he puts between us, I feel my heart crumble. I swear I can hear our hearts shatter at the same time as the universe rips us apart. As much as I know that he has to leave, that he isn’t mine, I’m a breath from falling on my knees and begging him to stay.
I wait until he’s gone to whisper, “Choose me.”
I wait until he’s gone before the tears fall.
I wait until he’s gone before darkness descends.
My hand tightens around the necklace I’m clasping, and a small pain pricks my finger, causing me to drop it.
I look down at the beads lying on the floor, and notice a small piece of paper hanging from the string. It’s folded origami in the shape of a lion.
As I undo each fold, the tiny mark behind my ear burns.
Like it’s coming to life.
When I’ve finished, I flatten the small note out in my palm and read Tristan’s words.
The Sun of Vergina is our cessation.
Serena
THE DARK TEMPEST LURKS ON THE horizon, casting a shadow over the cloud-filled sky. Heavy gusts slice through the atmosphere in quick, angry bursts. With each surge of air, the ache in my chest recedes, allowing me to breathe.
I’ve always envied the currents. Wind is the epitome of strength and power, and has the ability to move freely throughout the world. It can’t be captured. Or tamed.
I’m an elemental gargoyle, which means the air strengthens my spirit, making it vitally important in order for my protector energy to flow properly. Controlling the unseen currents reminds me there’s so much more to this world than what we can visually see.
I continue to manipulate the wind’s speed until I’m exhausted. I’m hoping the directional streams will bring the rain. You see, how the air floats between the clouds or trees determines whether or not a storm will appear.
The air currents grow and change—as the world does.
They can create calm and peace.
Or chaos and destruction.
I drop my hands and everything around me stills.
When Tristan returned to his realm, he took the rain, and in its place, the winds arose in my dominion.
Tristan Gallagher.
The ache in my chest spreads at the thought of my protector, the prince of the woodland nymphs. It was only months ago that, like the wind, he blew into my life, bringing with him the calm, and then the storm.
Tristan is half-gargoyle. In order to avoid a sentencing of stone petrifaction, my family assigned him to protect me from a possible attack by the Diablo Fairies—a legion of ancient warriors who practice black magic. They’re a new breed of supernatural creatures, created by Asmodeus, the king of the Nine Hells, in order to end my existence.
After the death of his mate, the demon lord declared revenge on my family, the London clan of gargoyles, and the entire protector race. Unbeknownst to me, Asmodeus blamed my clan for his mate’s demise.
He’s made it clear that I’m his primary target. As such, my family felt it necessary to add more protection to my royal guard. Hence the introduction of Tristan into my world. Successfully ending my existence will ensure I can’t take my place as the next leader of the gargoyle race—a distinguished title within the supernatural world, which, to this day, my uncle Asher proudly assumes.
If Asmodeus were to succeed in destroying both my uncle and me, it would leave the protector world open to attack.
Kupuva, the leader of the Diablo Fairy army, recently challenged Tristan to a Donga fight—a barbaric and archaic competition and ritual known among the Suri tribes in Africa. Its primary purpose is to settle conflicts.
A champion is chosen on your behalf to fight for your honor—and love.
Tristan was chosen to fight for me—and won.
The Diablo Fairy army has backed off, for now, but the victory was short-lived because Tristan is also half-satyr, a male nymph. His mother is Queen Ophelia of the Woodland realm, which makes him a prince.
For centuries, the wood and water realms have been teetering on the brink of war, locked in an ancient power struggle. To solidify their alliance, Tristan was promised in marriage to Freya, the princess of the water realm, and someone he doesn’t love.
Shortly after his triumph against Kupuva and her army, Tristan returned to his realm to fulfill his oath and secure peace for his kingdom and kin.
Leaving me alone.
With a broken heart.
I look up at the gray clouds and, with a quick flick of my wrist, attempt to force the rain to fall from the sky.
The wind releases my fury. But the rain? The rain calms me. Since Tristan left, it hasn’t rained.
“If you keep doing that, champ, you’ll cause a hurricane.”
I throw Zander, Tristan’s half-brother and best friend, an over-the-shoulder annoyed glare.
“So be it.” My voice is empty.
His steps are measured as he approaches me.
“Angry much these days, Serena?”
I bark out a laugh. “How can you tell?”
“Call it a satyr hunch,” he banters, stepping next to me, and lowers his voice. “The tornado you’re conjuring has spilt over into the woodland realm. The trees are bending and the leaves trembling as if something dark is on the horizon.”
My response is a one-shoulder shrug. “Maybe it is.”
Zander watches me with his stormy jade eyes and inky rock-star hair. He looks nothing like Tristan.
Tristan’s hair is a warm caramel color, longer on the top, and messily styled. The flecks of gold in his serious cognac gaze are deep.
Tristan looks like the calm before the storm, whereas Zander looks like the darkness that will overtake you.
Appearances can be deceiving, though. Where Zander’s personality is lively, warm, and inviting, Tristan’s is full of darkness, haunted coolness, and impassive indifference.
Except with me.
“Would this tempest be about my brother’s upcoming nuptials to a certain nymph princess?” he watches me.
At his words, rage consumes me.
The reality of my situation hit me full force ten seconds after Tristan walked out of my life. Since then, the gloomy days match my dark mood.
Male protectors should come with a warning label. They aren’t good for the heart. Period. The End.
My attention snaps to Zander’s face as the thunder rolls in and lightning strikes over the lake multiple times.
Zander’s gaze roams to the sky. “You need to get past this, Serena. Let him focus on his duties and oaths.”
I scowl.
How am I supposed to get past this? How can I move on from Tristan, when he is tied to me by a blood bond?
Ever since Tristan came into my life, I was given a taste of freedom, something I’d never had before. My free will isn’t unrestricted; it came at a price—the loss of my heart.
In order to safeguard me, Tristan’s protector mark was infused with my blood. A blood bond is the only way a gargoyle can truly protect their charge. Once it’s broken or begins to fade, the gargoyles become short-tempered and sullen. I’ve been told that with time, it will fade.
Just like my memories of Tristan.
I shiver, out of loneliness and rejection.
“The bond we share doesn’t leave me a choice,” I snap.
Zander doesn’t get angry at me for my outburst. Instead, his demeanor becomes softer, understanding.
“You do have a choice, Serena,” he pacifies.
Chaos reigns around me and then suddenly, everything stops. “Wrong,” I
state sharply. “If I really had a choice, I would have chosen Tristan. He would have chosen me.”
Zander swears under his breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. Dark circles frame his eyes and his lips pull into a tight smile, across his straight white teeth.
“You think he likes this, Serena? Do you think Tristan isn’t hurting in the same way you are?” he grunts. “My brother is miserable. If you thought he was dark and broody before his time with you, he’s worse now.”
Words become caught in my throat, and my shoulders fall in defeat. I know Tristan feels this too. How can he not?
Maybe I should move on. At the thought, the small mark behind my ear tingles, reminding me it’s there.
My hand lifts and rubs at it, trying to soothe the burn.
Zander’s forest-clouded focus narrows in at the motion.
“Have you told him, yet?” he asks.
“About what?”
Rolling his eyes, Zander folds his arms across his muscular chest. “The mark. Behind your ear, Serena.”
I look away. “Why would he care about a freckle?”
“A freckle in the shape of his insignia,” he counters.
As the prince of the woodland nymphs, Tristan wears an emblem around his neck, the Sun of Vergina.
It marks him as nymph royalty.
Oddly enough, the symbol, his mark, is on my skin.
Sighing, I slowly turn my head.
The minute my eyes meet Zander’s, I lose the ability to argue anymore. Instead, I swallow the dryness in my throat.
“I have no idea why it’s there, Zander. Until I do, I don’t think Tristan needs to know. Not now, anyway. You know, with everything else he has going on,” I whisper.
Zander shakes his head in disagreement. “There is a deeper meaning behind it. It isn’t just a coincidence.”
He’s right. Before Tristan left, he handed me a note, which read: The Sun of Vergina is our cessation.
His words contain a hidden meaning that I can’t decipher. I’ve been going over and over them again in my mind, trying to figure out their meaning. Exactly how, or what, the insignia will stop or end, I have no idea.
“Do not tell him, Zander. Until I understand it, Tristan doesn’t need to be made aware,” I demand.
“He’ll kill you when he finds out,” he scoffs.
I snort. He won’t. Tristan wouldn’t ever hurt me, I lie to myself, as the ache in my heart makes itself known again.
“I’m not afraid of Tristan. Or his wrath,” I mumble.
“You really have no fears, do you?” he mocks.
Slowly, I raise my head and lock eyes with Zander.
“I fear what my life will be, without him in it.”
And damn it if I wasn’t going to do everything in my power to prevent that from happening.
“Well, then, I guess your fears are about to become a reality. I’m here because his ceremony is in five days. Freya’s father, Oren, has moved up the date. Again. I wanted to personally let you know, before you found out another way. Given how you took the news the last time.”
I school my features, pretending not to have heard him.
“Serena?” he questions, at my quiet state.
That’s it. I’m done letting fate decide our futures.
“I need a favor, Zander,” I state.
“What now?” he asks, with caution lining his tone.
“I need you to sneak me into your realm,” I say.
“What?” Zander laughs out loud.
“You’re the second in command of the army that guards the woodland realm. I need you to sneak me in.”
Zander falls silent as he studies my features. After a moment, he sighs. “Why? What are you going to do?”
“Stop a wedding.”
“You’re serious?” he exhales. “You’ll start a war, Serena.”
“He’s worth starting a war for.”
“So you’re saying it is the crazy, obsessive, I will die for you kind of love?” he responds, pinning me with a look.
Zander once asked me if I felt that way toward Tristan, and I lied and said no. But I do. Deep in my bones, I know.
“He’s worth fighting for, Zander,” I hiss.
“Just—” Zander runs his hand through his raven hair. “Be careful—he isn’t yours.”
“Trust me.” I step to move past him and lower my voice. “I’m well aware that he’s not mine. Yet,” I add. “That doesn’t mean I can’t—or won’t—fight for him. Now, take me to the woodland realm, so I can save Tristan.”
(The Revelation Series, Book One)
I’M RUNNING, AND NOT VERY WELL, might I add. My lungs burn and my shallow breathing erratically bounces off the slick stone walls. I keep moving forward, forcing myself farther and farther into the dark underground passage. It’s cold, damp, and smells like musk.
“What the hell is following me?” I ask myself, as confusion sets in. The only thing I’m certain of is that I’m bone-chillingly terrified, down to the core of my very soul. I’m frightened that whatever is chasing me will catch me, because when it does, there’s no doubt it will kill me. Its hatred and anger rolls off it in waves, crashing through me like a sharp gust of wind, suffocating me. I’m positive it’s pure evil.
Just as I reach the end of the tunnel, I hit a solid wall, ceasing my progress and ending my futile efforts at escape. “Shit,” I whisper out loud, while I strike my palms against the water-slicked stones. Feeling defeated, I place my forehead to the damp wall and release a soft whimper.
I need to figure out my options, quickly. I sense its presence closing in, dropping the tunnel’s temperature from cool and damp to downright frigid, the glacial air settling around the passageway. My breath comes out in a cloud in front of me. My heart rate increases as I stifle the gag reflex being challenged by the rancid smell of sulfur and sour milk.
“Eeeve,” it hisses, mocking me. Sensing my deepest fears, it begins to play with me by using those emotions against me. “Oh God,” I exhale, as I close my eyes and rub my temples, trying to ease the dread rising in my throat.
Panicked, I start talking to myself. “Think, Eve.” I turn around, allowing my eyes to scan over the dark enclosed area. All I can see in front of me is black. Blowing out a harsh breath, I begin to pray for a miracle as I wait for it to manifest.
“Nope, nothing,” I say dejectedly to no one.
I twist back to the wall. In a frantic state, I push and pound on the large, dark gray stones, trying anything. I’m desperate, and there’s an off-chance that located somewhere is a hidden opening that could grant me freedom.
Then I hear it. The thing I fear most. I spin and freeze, fixed in my spot at the hissing sound of slithering snakes. Oh shit, now I’m really afraid. My heartbeat echoes in my ears as a severe chill runs down the length of my spine. My lips force air out sharply in a frenzied state, causing strands of fallen hair to jump away from my face with each irregular breath.
Without warning, the tunnel goes silent. The only sound ricocheting off the wet stones is my strained breath being forced into the dark abyss. I remind myself to inhale before I suffer from a full-blown panic attack. With great slowness, I rotate to face my attacker.
No one is there.
As I swallow hard, my eyes shift down to the floor and take in the dark tendrils of smoke that crawl around my ankles, rooting me to the ground. What the hell? My eyes dart around wildly, searching for the point of origin of the wisp, but there isn’t one.
With my back pressed flat against the cold concrete wall and the dampness seeping into my shirt, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that this is how I’m going to die. I close my eyes in acceptance and attempt to steady my breathing, listening to the droplets of water hitting the ground.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I try to convince myself it will be okay as the dark cloud works its way up my body, wrapping forcefully around my neck and cutting off the oxygen supply sustaining me.
Black spots form behind my closed eyelids as I become light-headed and dizzy. The lack of oxygen begins to take hold of my body, and I start to lose consciousness. Crap.
“Dimittet eam, Nero,” I hear a strong male voice order, in a calm yet deadly tone.
I can’t see my savior. Everything is shrouded in darkness. Maybe he isn’t even here, and I’m hallucinating in my final moments of life.
The black mist loosens its choke hold on my neck while hissing angrily. “Deus tuus, ibi est filia eius.”
A putrid gust of air blankets my face with each seething mock. Changing its mind, the evil smoke cackles, wrapping around my throat again and gripping firmly, causing me to wheeze. What the fuck?
“Dixit mittam tibi pergat ad profundum inferni, sive,” my liberator says heatedly in Latin.
Nero releases me, then turns to my rescuer, morphing into the outline of a man. At the discharge of its hold, my body slides down the slick wall, landing harshly on the glacial, water-soaked stone floor. I begin coughing and gasping for air as I place my head between my legs, willing air into my lungs.
“Et subdit quod me putesssss?” Nero hisses.
“Yes, you repulsive excuse of an existence, I do think I can send you back to the depths of Hell,” my protector replies calmly, yet cockily.
“Et veniunt ad me ut, gurgulio,” Nero states, in a final slithery tone. At that command, my savior pulls out a long, black, granite sword that reflects the water cascading down the passage walls.
“Delectabiliter,” the dark knight replies coldly, before he attacks.
Even wrapped in blackness, I can sense he’s a trained warrior. His body moves with ease and agility as he engages Nero. I hear each whoosh the sword makes as it slices effortlessly through the air, making contact with each thrust.
I can’t make out any of the warrior’s facial features, but I know he’s large and moves fast and efficiently. I close my eyes for a brief second, only to throw them open in alarm at the high-pitched shriek coming from the thing called Nero, as it bursts into blue flames and vanishes.
Vernal Page 24
