Lord of Shadows
Page 169
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Emma hoped Ty was unconscious. She hoped he was seeing none of this. He would wake up eventually, and the horror of what he would wake up to drove her forward.
Annabel staggered back. Her foot slipped, and she tumbled to the floor. She raised her head as Emma loomed up over her. Her face was a mask of fear.
Emma heard Arthur’s voice in her head. Mercy is better than revenge. But it was fainter than Julian’s whispers or Dru’s sobs.
She brought Cortana down, scything the blade through the air—but as it sliced the air, inky smoke erupted from the window behind Annabel. It had the force of an explosion, the concussive wave knocking Emma backward. As she stumbled to her knees she caught sight of a moving shape inside the smoke—the gleam of gold, the flash of a symbol burned onto her brain: a crown, broken in half.
The smoke vanished, and Annabel vanished with it.
Emma curled her body over Cortana, clutching the blade to herself, her soul corroded with despair. All around her she could hear the rising voices in the room, cries and shrieks. She could see Mark bent over Ty, who was crumpled on the floor. Mark’s shoulders were shaking. Helen was struggling through the crowd toward both of them. Dru was on the ground, sobbing into her hands. Alec had slumped back against the doors of the Hall, staring at the devastation.
And there in front of her was Julian, his eyes and ears closed to anything but Livvy, her body cradled against his. She seemed a drift of fragile ash or snow, something impermanent that had blown into his arms accidentally: the petal of a faerie flower, the white feather of an angel’s wing. The dream of a little girl, the memory of a sister reaching up her arms: Julian, Julian, carry me.
But the soul, the spirit that made her Livvy was no longer there: It was something that had gone away to a far and untouchable place, even as Julian ran his hands over her hair again and again and begged her to wake up and look at him just one more time.
High above the Council Hall, the golden clock began to chime the hour.
Annabel staggered back. Her foot slipped, and she tumbled to the floor. She raised her head as Emma loomed up over her. Her face was a mask of fear.
Emma heard Arthur’s voice in her head. Mercy is better than revenge. But it was fainter than Julian’s whispers or Dru’s sobs.
She brought Cortana down, scything the blade through the air—but as it sliced the air, inky smoke erupted from the window behind Annabel. It had the force of an explosion, the concussive wave knocking Emma backward. As she stumbled to her knees she caught sight of a moving shape inside the smoke—the gleam of gold, the flash of a symbol burned onto her brain: a crown, broken in half.
The smoke vanished, and Annabel vanished with it.
Emma curled her body over Cortana, clutching the blade to herself, her soul corroded with despair. All around her she could hear the rising voices in the room, cries and shrieks. She could see Mark bent over Ty, who was crumpled on the floor. Mark’s shoulders were shaking. Helen was struggling through the crowd toward both of them. Dru was on the ground, sobbing into her hands. Alec had slumped back against the doors of the Hall, staring at the devastation.
And there in front of her was Julian, his eyes and ears closed to anything but Livvy, her body cradled against his. She seemed a drift of fragile ash or snow, something impermanent that had blown into his arms accidentally: the petal of a faerie flower, the white feather of an angel’s wing. The dream of a little girl, the memory of a sister reaching up her arms: Julian, Julian, carry me.
But the soul, the spirit that made her Livvy was no longer there: It was something that had gone away to a far and untouchable place, even as Julian ran his hands over her hair again and again and begged her to wake up and look at him just one more time.
High above the Council Hall, the golden clock began to chime the hour.
