She could only remember the earnest passion in his voice as he hadgrasped her face and asked her to trust him.
She could only give, because she had never learned to stop.
Her Agni surged forward at his call, and she felt the furious heat of his Agni swallow her own, growing in size, in strength.
Her vision split.
Elena saw two things at once.
She saw herself falling, her chakras blazing with the ferocity of a dying star, her Agni molten and vicious like the magma beneath the earth.
She saw Samson kneeling before a dead snake that was full of silver and shadows, his chakras a beautiful, horrid blue, like the deepest of oceans, the worst of terrors.
He said something. A word she knew, from a lifetime ago. A word that was both a promise and a curse, the beginning of her misery, and the end of it all.
Agneepath.
To her horror, the dead snake rose.
And it spoke with the voice of Yassen Knight.
“You stupid, beautiful idiots,” it began.
CHAPTER 71
SAMSON
The Great Serpent is an ancient and capricious god. With scales like the moons and eyes like the terrible deep, She controls the seas and whips fire into obedience. Her power is mighty, and always, it comes with a price.
—fromThe Legends and Myths of Sayon
She gave it to him willingly. Her Agni flooded his senses with an intoxicating heat that made his veins strum as if plucked anew. Skies above, it feltgoodto feel power again. His Agni flared, licking up Elena’s spark with eager hunger.
The mountain rumbled as the old god sensed the blending of the two Agnis.
Butcher, it sang.
He could not summon fire without his urumi, but with Elena’s Agni, he did not need it. A blue flame, so strong and fresh it made him laugh in bewilderment, leapt from his palms. The Jantari rushed forward. Distantly, he remembered their faces. The condescending officer. The cruel king. The stupid soldiers. With an almost mindless ease, he flicked his hand, and his flames leapt.
Screams filled the air.
All the pain, all the abuse and loneliness and trauma, melted away as he felt the power of both his Agni and Elena’s twine together.
Lock together.
Bind together.
Butcher, Butcher, Butcher.
Shadows rustled within the snakeskin, coalescing, wriggling. Suddenly, the dead snake began tomove. It rose, silver scales flashing, and the hollow voice of an old god echoed through the chamber.
“You stupid, beautiful idiots,” it said.
Samson reeled, stunned at the familiar voice. “Yassen?” he gasped.
Somewhere deep within the mountain, there was a laugh. Low, rumbling, like tectonic plates rubbing together. Its tremor carried up his knees to his head, his skull vibrating.
“Not quite,” the old god said.
