Page 91 of Ashen Wings

Arrogant fucking asshole.

Just as I reach him, I sidestep, mimicking Isra’s instruction from earlier. The weapon comes mere inches from his chest, then he dodges. Swift, simple, clean.

Before I can register what the fuck happened, I’m wrapped around his chest, free falling until we both impact the ground. Jace rolls our bodies, pressing his full weight over me, and clamps down on both wrists.

“That temper of yours will get you killed,” he whispers, his mouth a hair’s width from my ear. “Rage is your greatest ally, but also your deadliest of enemies. You want to hurt me? Good. You’re pissed off? Good. But don’t lose yourself to the anger. That’ll get you killed.”

“Get off me!” I shove a boot toward him, but his thighs catch my ankle and hold it in place.

“Do you see how easy it was for me to get under your skin? Now look at what's happened. If I had shifted, you’d be drained of blood in seconds.” His voice is slow and steady, dripping with a darkness that sends a shudder down my spine.

“I fucking hate you,” I seethe.

“No you don’t, but you should,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine. He’s right, I don’t, but the rage coursing through me is white hot.

I squirm against his body as Jace brings our intertwined hands to his neck, then his chest, directly over his heart. “Don’t forget the killing blows, Nova. Even in soulless form, I’m susceptible to them. Never forget that.”

Then he lifts his weight from me and rises to his feet. I glance at Isra, now gaping and grey.

“Sea accepted our offer. We’ll leave tomorrow.” Jace turns his back to us. I beg my body to go, to shove off the chilled grass and charge him again, but no amount of will has me moving.

“Tomorrow? What about now?” I ask, breathless and glazed.

He holds up a hand and there between his fingers is a simple stone, etched with a rune I don’t recognize. “Because I owe you a protection bond. Meet me at Morvayne’s Well tonight. Don’t be late, it’ll only work if the moon is full.”

Come on, you fucker.

Sweat trickles to the floor and spatters on impact. My brow furrows and I clamp my teeth tighter. The little glass vial, as if it’s mocking me, rests silent and cold. The room is still, quiet, vacant—save for my grunts, and exhausted groans.

I’ve been at this for an hour, sitting as quiet as possible with my legs crossed in my lap, and still there’s nothing. Just as it was back in Storm.

Yaris’s note remains crumpled in the corner. That wound is one I’m not yet ready to reopen, but curiosity gnaws on me until I’m nothing but bone.

“Walk the plane,” the phantom voice had told me. It wasn’t difficult to connect the pieces in its meaning, even if I’d withheld the truth from the others. I’m still not even sure I’m fully capable of astral projection, seeing as our cosmic mother hasn’t answered a single one of my pleas.

The draft seeping in from the frosted windows chills my skin, but I force my body quiet. A fading evening light washes my bedchamber in shadows. I should get up, pack a bag, and prepare for tonight’s offering, but I don’t move. Not even to light a candle.

Focus, Nova. Fucking focus.

I tell myself this time will be different. I’ve opened a door that once was barricaded shut. That means something, right? I’ve faced myself again, let myself feel again. This heartache won’t—can’t be for nothing.

Just as Yaris taught, I focus on the vial. Retrieving a satchel of herbs, swiped from the kitchen, I pull open the strands and waft the scent.

It pricks my nose and instantly clears my airways with a singe of spice. My eyes water in protest and my throat burns. Overtaken by a coughing fit, I nearly keel over, sputtering up bile and scorched saliva.

Maybe dragon’s bane wasn’t the best option, but, gods be good, my senses are definitely clear…if not entirely incinerated.

I resettle into my seat, keeping my back straight and palms open. With a long drawn breath, I close my eyes again, and let the room’s little sounds filter away.

The foundation creaking, the whistle of the draft, even the slight rustle of my own clothes fades until I’m floating in a void—silent and still. Time slows to a halt, or races by, I don’t bother distinguishing between the two. All that exists is the thrum of blood in my veins and my steady, rhythmic breaths.

And yet, nothing happens.

My limbs prickle with phantom sensations, alerting my body I haven’t yet died. An itch on my nose begs to be scratched and my tunic tickles my waist like a little reminder of my failure.

I open my eyes. This is pointless. I’m too grounded by the physical world, but how do I even begin to untether myself? I can’t simply jump out of my own flesh.

My stomach knots. I haven’t made even a shred of progress, sitting here like a fool with stolen herbs and a vial of water no more significant than from the fountain outside.