Page 405 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“That you need a CAT scan?”

“That she’s bein’ crushed under the weight of the crown,” she said, her accent thicker, the way our Mother’s always got when she was emotional about shit. “And while I might not know that feelin’ exactly, I do know what it is to be groomed to wear it. And it’s a heavy fuckin’ burden, let me tell ya’. But that got me thinkin’. Freya’s so focused on being a good queen, she ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout much else.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I drank—one drink—s—maybe two? Not drunk. Shut up and listen to me—you’re the same.”

“I’m not queen.”

“No. But you grew up with the sole mission of keepin’ the crown on my head. You did it.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” I reached up and set the inside of my wrist against her forehead like I was checking for a fever. She batted me away with a roll of her eyes.

“You did,” she argued, pointing at the heiress mark on her skin. “Freya protected succession, Cy. She didn’t take it from us. She waited to challenge Reagan until I was marked.” When I didn’t pick up whatever she was putting down, she sighed, exasperated. “Now, you’re moving between Wings, delegation meetings, and politicking, but I’m afraid you’re still holdin’ the weight of twenty-three years of workin’ toward putting me next in line. Or worse yet, thinkin’ Freya winnin’ that duel somehow means you failed. That we failed.” As if we’d summoned her, Freya appeared outside the front door, watching the jump site across the property with her arms crossed. “Let it go, Cyrus. Freya didn’t change the line of succession—she just changed who sits on the throne now.”

EIGHTY-ONE

NO MORE SECRETS

FREYA

174:19:33:33

I jackknifed out of a dead sleep with a mouthful of bile and my heart trying to slam through my throat.

There would be no unseeing Ansel taking the blade meant for us.

No unhearing the sickening sound of his head hitting concrete, or the way my chest felt like it was shredding with Lana’s screams.

Details my mind had mummified, only to unearth every fucking night, like it was par for the course to exhume my personal hell and make me relive it. No doubt some twisted karmic debt I’d yet to repay, demanding penance.

Some debts, it turned out, could not be remedied.

Shaking, I forced a swallow, glancing down at Cyrus sprawled across my bed, gloriously shirtless, and out like a fucking light. This year had cast new scars over his skin—a few bisecting the ink on his chest, and that goddamn thigh piece I’d never had the courage to ask about. All marks he never could’ve acquired if Ansel hadn’t done what he’d done.

Dad bought us time. Time to… what, exactly? Heal? Reunite? Finish this?

If it was the latter, I couldn’t help but feel like the resistance would’ve been better off with him still here and me gone. Not that there would be any convincing Ansel—The Old General—Callahan of that.

Eyes burning, I blinked at the ceiling as I caught my breath and slipped out of bed.

The testosterone fest was miraculously missing from my room, and I sent up a prayer of thanks because there wasn’t a way in hell I’d get past all of them.

I pulled a bottle of rum off my dwindling shelf, shifted into shadow, and slipped into the hallway. There was a chance Cyrus had somebody posted in the realm between, but given how time moved at a glacial pace in the other realm, I highly doubted it. To my relief, the gray was empty, though Orion was stationed just outside the door, face turned toward the threshold like he’d heard me coming.

Grimacing, I held my breath as I edged around him, thankful for once for my size.

I’d already thumbed the lid off the bottle and taken a swig before I pushed open the attic window, grateful for the rush of air on my face. The moment I shifted out of the shadows, something caught my attention—a harsh slash of lettering over an illustrated cover, nestled against a familiar emerald blanket.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I fished out my favorite copy of The Count of Monte Cristo—the cover worn, spine cracked, and more pages dog-eared than I could count. I snatched the throw and slipped out the window without another thought. Balmy Louisiana warmth wrapped around me in a miraculously tolerable hello—fall really was on her way.

Book tucked under an elbow, I made a beeline for the valley of the roof. Beneath the auspiciously clear sky, I settled in, took a swig, and started turning through the pages.

As per usual, Cyrus’ notes had this analytical, almost academic pattern, as if a professor had assigned required reading. But just like I’d been doing in his books, he took the time to agree or disagree with my own observations alongside pointed thoughts about the actual Napoleonic political betrayals Dantès suffered.

By the time Dantès was in his revenge era, which I’d seen myself in long before ascension restored my memories, the notes had dwindled to just one. Beside my own recent addition debating the morality of playing judge and jury, Cyrus had written Francis Bacon, 19.

I filled my cheeks with air, letting it out slowly, like a hole punched through a balloon. Eyeing the significantly lighter bottle, I sighed before pushing off the roof. Blanket, booze, and book in hand, I shifted through the shadows until I landed in the library. It took me longer than I’d like to admit finding the book simply titled Essays. In my defense, the Dewey decimal system had always been irksome at best.