Page 300 of The Mortal Trials

I stare at my broken, grieving, shocked grandmother and watch a piece of her die, too.

August moves in front of me, steadying me with gentle hands on my shoulders. “Your abuela is safe. Right?”

“Right,” I croak.

Abuela and Cillian are safe. And Carina is in the earth. Buried sitting up in a small burnt soil hole with a mound of rocks to mark the spot. Just outside, in the corner of the garden.

I push away from him and walk through the wall to where the golden spear lays on the scorched ground and pick it up. He doesn’t ask what I’m going to do with it. His eyes tell me that he knows.

I will do what I must now. What I should have done then.

I want the gods of Olympus to choke on those words. I want to kill Ares like my sister promised I would.

An enormous flock of quetzals swoops through Abuela’s garden before flying south. The song they sing isn’t pleasant. Their cadence matches the beat of the war drum that is my heart. And in their cries, I hear my mother’s voice.

“Run, Callalie Ryan. Run!”

These are not my grandmother’s birds. These are Mamá’s.

I grab August’s hand. “Follow the birds!”

“Why?”

I glance at him as we run through the yard, across the courtyard, and into the desert night. “Please trust me.”

30

As we sprint down the road in the sweltering heat, the desert is swallowed by layers of towering pines.

“My house!” August breathes, pointing ahead to a sprawling home tucked into the midst of a forest. It’s warmly lit from within, in stark contrast to the cool air swirling around us as we run.

The front door is open, just as mine was.

Inside, portraits lined the walls. Of him, each of his brothers individually, and his family all together. There were potted plants and rich wooden furniture. Cozy blankets tossed over the backs of chairs and beautifully stitched pillows everywhere. His mother sat on a chair, lovely embroidery forgotten in her hands as she watched him strum the guitar from where he sat on the edge of the couch.

He was singing the song he wrote about me.

He played with such conviction, the words and melodies pouring from him like they were always supposed to be his.

You stand unyielding

A conviction in your eyes

Even bruised and bleeding

You are quietly resigned

That whatever fate befalls you

You’ll protect the ones you love

I won’t let you be the unsung hero

Or think you’re not enough

From the ashes on the ground

You will rise up stronger now