Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)

by Rebecca Ross

“Going easy on me, then?” He arched a brow. “That’s surprising. We’re supposed to duel to the death.” She snorted. “A hyperbolic turn of phrase, Kitt. Which you do often in your articles, by the way. You should be careful of that tendency if you get columnist.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you squint when you lie?” His scowl only deepened. “No, but only because no one has spent as much time looking at me as you do, Winnow.”

Once he was gone, she had finished reading his article in peace. It made her heart ache—his writing was extraordinary—and she had dreamt about him that night. The next morning, she had promptly torn the paper to shreds and vowed to never read another one of his pieces again. If she did, she was bound to lose the position to him.

She did care, but only because she couldn’t afford to lose to Roman. She needed to pay the electricity bill. She needed to purchase a nice set of shoes that fit. She needed to eat regularly. She needed to find her mother help. And yet she wanted to write about what was happening in the west. She wanted to write the truth.

Pages that smelled like dust and tombs and places that could be reached only in the dark. Pages full of stories of gods and goddesses from a time long ago. Before the humans had slain them or bound them deep into the earth. Before magic had begun to bloom from the soil, rising from divine bones, charming certain doorways and buildings and settling into the rare object.

He didn’t want to embarrass her, nor did he want to suffer a slow, painful death at her hands.

At first it was a “tactic,” because she was his competition and he wanted to know as much about her as possible. But then he realized he was reading them because he was deeply moved by her writing and the memories she shared.

But just in case you were wondering … I’ll gladly read whatever you write.

“I see. Well, it’s reassuring to know that if I get the position, it will only be due to pity. And if you get columnist, it will only be due to how much your rich father can bribe Autry to give it to you.”

It had been a long time since her mother had cooked or bought dinner. And while Iris wanted to be cautious, she was so hungry. For warm, nourishing food. For sober conversations with her mother. For the days of the past, before Forest had left and Aster had turned to the bottle.

And then it hit her; the money from Nan’s radio must have bought this meal—and alcohol, most likely—and the food suddenly tasted like ash.

Dacre, who was enchanted by her, readily agreed. He took Enva below. But little did he know what her music would do once it was strummed deep in the earth.

Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you’ve so carefully encased yourself in? They see what they want to see in you—the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you’ve made mistakes, all the times you’ve failed, all the times you’ve hurt them or disappointed them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes. How do you change something like that? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?

I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it’s that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear.

For a breath, Iris couldn’t move. And whatever mask he had been wearing for everyone else—the smile and the merry eyes and the flushed cheeks—faded until she saw how exhausted and sad he was. It struck a chord within her, music that she could feel deep in her bones, and she broke their stare first.

Sometimes I’m afraid to love other people. Everyone I care about eventually leaves me, whether it’s death or war or simply because they don’t want me.

But I realize that people are just people, and they carry their own set of fears, dreams, desires, pains, and mistakes. I can’t expect someone else to make me feel complete; I must find it on my own.

I hardly remember carrying her back to my parents. But I will never forget the wail of my mother, the tears of my father. I will never forget feeling my life rend in two: with Del and without Del.

And grief is a long, difficult process,

A month after I lost my sister, I had a dream where a goddess came to me and said, “I can take away the pain of your loss. I will cut out the shape of your grief, but I will have to also cull the memories of your sister. It will be as if Del had never been born, as if her life had never twined with yours for seven years. Would you choose that, to ease your suffering? To be able to draw a full breath again, to live a carefree life once more?” I didn’t even hesitate. I could barely look the goddess in the eye, but I firmly said, “No.” Not even for a moment would I trade my pain to erase Del’s life.

There are good days and there are difficult days. Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you—a shadow you carry in your soul—but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter. You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound. Others who share your pain will also help you heal. Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams. You are not alone.

was almost surreal to Iris, to return to something that felt outwardly so familiar when she felt inwardly so different.

In fact, I paid for him have a subscription, so the Inkridden Tribune will start showing up on his doorstep, and he’ll see my name in print and eat his words.”

“I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.”

Are you safe? Are you well? What happened? Please write to me, whenever you can.

She read it twice before hiding her smile in the crease of the paper.

Let us make our names exactly what we want them to be.

How am I supposed to write articles about this when my words and my experience are so terribly inadequate? When I myself feel so terribly inadequate?

Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain. That is strength, and I see it in you.

She felt his hands slide down her back, resting on the curve of her hips. If she wasn’t so exhausted and stiff from the harrowing encounter they had miraculously survived, she would have knocked away his touch. She would have slapped him. She might have kissed him.

They might be killed on this venture. And she would never know who he was and how he felt about her. But when he opened his mouth, his courage completely crumbled, and different words emerged instead.

She unfortunately had to sit on Roman Kitt’s lap, nearly all the way to the front lines.

“It won’t do us any good if you break your neck on the way to the front,” she said. “I don’t mind sharing the seat. That is, if you don’t mind me sitting on your—” “I don’t mind,” he said.

Her determination lasted all of ten minutes. The captain was right; the roads got bumpier, rutted from weeks of rain, and she had no choice but to relax, aligning her spine with Roman’s chest. His arm slid around her waist, and she rested in the warmth of his hand, knowing he was keeping her from bashing her head against the windshield.

At the very least, he was calling her Winnow again. That was familiar ground for them; she knew what she could expect from him in those moments. The word spars and the snark and the frowns. When he addressed her as Iris … it was like completely new territory and it scared her sometimes. As if she were stepping up to the edge of a great cliff.

“Of course, you would bring a handkerchief to the front lines,” she said, half a grumble. “They didn’t include it in your ‘things to bring to war’ list, Winnow?” he quipped. Iris blew her nose. “Shut up, Kitt.” He only answered with a chuckle, setting the helmet back onto her head. But he remained close at her side, keeping her warm through the darkest hours before dawn.

Her eyes were wide and wild as she stared at him. He could lose himself in those hazel eyes, in wanting to calm the fear that blazed within her. But he had never felt so terrified or powerless himself, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to get them both out safely.

She has to survive this, Roman thought. He didn’t want to live in a world without her and her words.

Before she could cower, Roman was pressing her upright against the wall of the trench, covering her with his body. If anything hurt her, it would have to come through him first. But his mind was racing.

He waited for the bombardment to cease, his hand cupping the back of her neck, keeping her close. His fingers were lost in her hair.

Her heart wrenched at the thought. She couldn’t bear it, she realized as her hands raced over his face, his chest. She couldn’t bear to live in a world without him.

She and Roman would survive this war. They would have the chance to grow old together, year by year. They would be friends until they both finally acknowledged the truth. And they would have everything that other couples had—the arguments and the hand-holding in the market and the gradual exploration of their bodies and the birthday celebrations and the journeys to new cities and the living as one and sharing a bed and the gradual sense of melting into each other. Their names would be entwined—Roman and Iris or Winnow and Kitt

He wove his fingers into her hair and brought his mouth down to hers. Iris felt the shock ripple through her the moment their lips met. His kiss was hungry, as if he had longed to taste her for some time, and at first she couldn’t breathe. But then the shock melted, and she felt a thrill warm her blood.

When he shifted their bodies, Iris sensed they were falling and she was utterly helpless to it until she felt the wall at her back. Roman pressed against her, his lean body blazing as if he had caught fire. His heat seeped into her skin, settled into her bones, and she couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her.

Yes, he had wanted her for a long time. She could feel it in the way he touched her, in the way his lips claimed hers. As if he had endlessly imagined this moment happening.

“I prefer salty over sweet. I prefer sunsets over sunrises, but only because I love to watch the constellations begin to burn. My favorite season is autumn, because my mum and I both believed that’s the only time when magic can be tasted in the air. I am a devout tea lover and can drink my weight in it.”

Roman began. “I prefer sunrises, but only because I like the possibilities a new dawn brings. My favorite season is spring, because baseball returns. I prefer coffee, although I’ll drink whatever is placed in front of me.”

“If I tell you anything else today, you’ll grow tired of me.” “Impossible,” he whispered.

Iris Enchanting Winnow?

Iris Ethereal Winnow? Iris Exquisite Winnow?”