Page 65 of The Ember and the Emerald

“Who hurt you?” I demanded, ready to do murder.

“I hurt myself, and I’ll answer no questions about why,” he stated, catching my wrist as I reached out to assess the damage. Despite his firm tone, his hold remained gentle. “I’m already healing.”

My fury dulled, but only slightly. I drew back and rubbed the heat his hand had seared into my skin. What had happened? What had he done? Why keep it secret?

Though desperate to learn what had occurred, I didn’t push. For now, I continued to prepare for our trip, packing toiletries and the sturdiest outfits from the closet. Not that any of them offered more coverage than a genie costume.

Upon completing my task, I perched at the foot of the bed to await the king. But the journal. It was no longer inside the pack but beside me, and open, words appearing on the page, as if being written by an invisible hand.

My throat worked. So time didn’t just move forward. It doubled back, crossed itself, and left messages.

Trembling, I lifted the tome. I didn’t recognize this handwriting. Just knew it wasn’t mine or the king’s.

Every ounce of me aflutter, I read.

I have not the vocabulary to describe the horrifying beauty of the Ember, though I will try. She is a light too bright, as harsh as a blade, alive, burning with a fire able to consume everything in its wake.

The first moment I beheld her, I did not recognize her importance. I only knew the beast inside me quaked in terror.

She died once, though the shells brought her back. But I have the shells now. If I kill her again, will she stay dead?

My mouth opened and closed, no sound escaping. The beast inside me. Had Ian written this? Correction: Was Ian writing this now, in another timeline? But how would he have seen Andrea? Unless she had, in fact, revived?

“What?” Jasher demanded.

I tried to explain, but my thoughts were crashing together. Andrea had died; Morris had placed her inside “shells; shells the author now possessed. Andrea, who was the Ember, must have come alive again, as Morris had hoped—but only after his death.

A life for a life.

My shock crested. I waited, hoping, praying for more information. When no other words appeared, my lungs flared wide, desperate for air.

“Moriah?” Jasher inquired, reminding me to breathe.

A firm double-rap sounded at the door.

My gaze whipped to him. He watched me, intent, as he stuffed Kevin in his back pocket.

“You may enter,” he called, his voice a low velvet drag. A spider coaxing a fly closer.

I hurried to school my features into a bored expression.

Captain Rourke marched in, finding me first and inclining his head in greeting. “The king is ready for you and your pet, Oracle.”

Okay, enough. “For the last time, he’s not my pet, and he’s not an it. Say otherwise again, and we’ll have a problem.” I used my sweetest tone while stuffing the journal into my bag.

“We just received word that his kind massacred an entire village. Burned them alive in their homes.” The captain’s hands shook with barely banked rage as he freed Jasher’s chain from the wall, yanking hard enough to make any other monstra stumble.

Jasher didn’t. He simply flared his wings—healed, as promised—catching himself.

A hollow ache spread beneath my ribs. I understood the pain of loss, but no soldier was allowed to punish Jasher for crimes committed by others. “Last warning of the day. If you pull on that chain again—” I choked on the sentence as Jasher smoothly wrenched the link from the soldier’s grip, sending him to his knees. A second later, he pressed his axes against his foe’s neck. But he didn’t strike, just let Captain Rourke know he could kill him if he’d wished.

“Obviously, I wasn’t part of the raid,” Jasher stated.

Even restrained, he embodied pure strength. Unbothered, unmovable, and unstoppable. My kryptonite wrapped in muscle and menace. And I really hoped I wasn’t making baby doll eyes at him.

The captain sprang up, far from appeased. The two men squared off.

I stepped between them before my brain started composing sonnets. “I’d rather not watch you die today,” I told Rourke. Somehow I kept my voice level, even though my knees had dissolved into warm chowder.