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At age seventeen, Tristan Caine choked on hot soup and died.
“I want,” Reina began slowly, “to do good. Not because I love the world, but because I hate it. And not because I can,” she added. “But because everyone else won’t.”
“I am not afraid to put us underwater. The question, Reina, is for what in this life will you drown?”
Reina looked up and thought, for the first time without regret, and without resentment, I will protect you. I won’t desert you. In gratitude, the trees blossomed like spring. A slow revolution, a gradual flurry of pink that bloomed in synchronicity, in unison.
If wonder were a sight, Reina thought. If it were an action. It would be a cherry tree in bloom.
“Vene, vidi, vici,” whispered James hoarsely. I came, I saw, I conquered. Tristan barked a laugh. “Lot of good that did Caesar.”
A shadow came over him in the sand, the feathered edge of a falcon’s wing, and Gideon looked up, feeling his heart hammer at first with disbelief, then gradual capitulation.
“Nicky.” Gideon swallowed. “Is this…?” “Real?” Nico shrugged. “Dunno. I never made a talisman, did you?” “No.” You were always my talisman.
Put the book away, Miss Rhodes. You won’t find what you’re looking for in there.
