Brimstone (Fae & Alchemy, #2)

by Callie Hart

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” —The Tempest, William Shakespeare

“Never doubt your powers, sweet one,” she’d told me. “Each one of them is a gift. Each one will prove exactly enough when you have need of it. Have faith in yourself. You will always be enough.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” I sounded so breathless. Kingfisher huffed, smiling as he ran the tip of his nose along the skin that led south of my belly button. “Come now, Osha. Where else would an acolyte kneel to worship but at the altar of his god?”

All libraries contained magic. Even libraries that didn’t specialize in such things. Because what was a book, if not a portal into another realm, another time, another life even.

“Until you learn how to be gentle, I will not teach you how to be violent.”

A long time ago, someone told me that the pain of loss was a temporary thing. That it would soften as the years went by, until the ache became an old friend that felt comfortable to be around.

Feel the pain you’ve been given, Carrion. Don’t be fool enough to ask for more.

I had been born into the light, but my salvation had been waiting for me in the dark.

I entered the stacks, following the feline, who trotted on ahead, occasionally looking back to make sure I was still there. I had always made it a rule to follow a cat. Particularly a black cat.

I wish I could explain more. I wish I had lived to see you grow into the man I know you will become, but do not worry. I have witnessed it in death, and I wouldn’t have changed that for anything. Your soul is shattered by the knowledge that I remained here for so long after I passed, but please know that it was necessary. And know that I have cherished every second that I have gotten to watch you from this side of the veil. I have no regrets. I love you. I am proud of you. Now give her back the book.

“How can I consign myself to another endless dark when I’ve been given back the light?”

“It feels like trying to make sand flow backward in an hourglass. It feels like being surrounded by people and being the only one who can’t find the air in the room. It’s drowning on dry land. It’s the hollow ache of something that you know, from that moment on, will always be missing. It is a pain so acute and incurable that poets, pirates, and politicians alike die from it. And it never ends.”