A shadow rises in front of my eyes, followed by a hundred more. They take me by surprise, swarming my thoughts like starved piranhas. They haven’t attacked in weeks, and I think they’ve been hiding, waiting for this chance.
Everything is thrown into a deeper darkness. My heart, my own heart, thuds out of control.
No. No. No.
I’ve been eclipsed. Azrael bided its time, made me think I had defeated her for good and I was safe. But that was never the case.
My heartbeat escalates, reaching its peak. I’m at the sharp edge of no return when my defensive mechanisms engage, and my thoughts begin to jump like never before.
Greasy hands.
Chalked hands.
Cues and billiard balls.
Another life. Not this life.
A better one. A lost one.
My chest spasms. My eyes spring open as I take a deep breath and resurface. Miraculously, I’m still standing, feet planted on the chair, even as I sway and put my arms out to regain my balance.
My eyes dart desperately in all directions. Did anyone see? Does anyone know what I was trying to do, what I was going through? Has the mole been unearthed?
The first thing that registers through my addled senses is the uneasy silence that hangs over the room. Sweat and fear slide down my spine, turning my courage to pulp. I’ve been discovered I’m done for.
But, as my senses settle back into place, I realize no one, and I mean absolutely no one, is looking at me. Instead, everyone’s attention is still glued to the front.
Shaking my head, I grab on to the moment and process the situation. My gaze snaps forward like everyone else’s, taking in the sight. Confused, I wonder why Elliot isn’t talking anymore and, instead, is standing slightly bent over with a hand to his breastbone. Lamia hovers over him, touching his back, wearing a worried expression.
He coughs and thumps his chest. I stare at the top of his head, shocked with the realization of what I’ve manage to do. I press trembling fingers to my mouth. To anyone, I may look like a scared Eklyptor, anxious about her leader’s wellbeing. But what I am is a traitor full of expectation and hope.
God, what if he dies? James thinks his death would mean chaos. What if he’s right?
Elliot coughs a few more times, then straightens suddenly, slapping Lamia’s hand from his back. His face is pale and twisted in a hideous grimace. He takes deep breaths and rubs his left arm, eyes darting around the room, examining the upturned faces of his followers with something that looks like hatred, as if he blames them for this lapse, for this display of weakness and vulnerability.
Does he suspect one of us did it? Can he tell?
His golden eyes scan the room. I fear the moment they’ll meet mine to discover it was I who supplanted his heart and tried to steal everything from him—just the way his kind supplants us and steal everything we hold dear. But when he sees me, propped high on my chair, a hand pressed to my mouth, he doesn’t pause—not even for an instant. And why would he? He thinks I saved his life. I couldn’t possibly be trying to kill him now. I’m his loyal Azrael.
When he’s done with his inspection of the crowd, he jerks his jacket down and squares his shoulders with determination. He takes a step, falters. Lamia’s hand flies to his elbow to steady him. He shrugs from her grasp and throws a nasty glare in her direction.
Head held high, he takes another step, then a third one. Finding himself steady, he descends the two steps in front of him, then strides resolutely toward the double doors, Lyra and Lamia following at a respectable distance.
I almost killed Elliot. The thought soaks through me like a downpour, chilling me to the bone. Would meditation bring me that kind of power? Would I want it?
Chapter 7 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)
After Elliot leaves the mess hall, I jump off the chair and sit down, feeling dizzy. The din of cutlery and conversation returns by degrees. I rest my elbows on the table and hold my head, thoughts still jumping, shifting away from the shadows that still loom over my mind.
Damn you, Azrael!
I almost killed Elliot. I shake my head, thinking how easy it would be to be rid of him if I could fully control my powers, how quickly I could end this war if I systematically killed every Eklyptor leader. If only I could practice meditation every day, but I haven’t seen Aydan in weeks, haven’t had his help, and I’m still too scared to do it alone.
Could someone else help me? Lyra, maybe? She must be a master at meditation. She’s morphed herself into Cheetara, after all. Could I trust her?
I bite my bottom lip, considering the other side of this coin, the morality of having the power to kill someone with a mere thought. The idea sends a chill straight into my bone marrow. No one should have that kind of power, especially not a sixteen-year-old with a temper.
The chill deepens when I think of all the people I might have killed during my lifetime if that skill had manifested early on. God, I almost did the same thing to Aydan right after Xave died—rage and my desire to push him away nearly turned me into … what? A murderer? Or something far worse I can’t even name?
Elliot deserves to die. He’s a monster, and I’ve promised myself to make him pay. But what about others just like him? Eklyptors and humans alike. What would stop me from killing them? What would give me the right, make me the judge?
Would anyone feel comfortable around a person who could do little more than blink to render you inert? Hell, I wouldn’t want someone like that near me.
I drive stiff thumbs into my temples as a headache throbs to life. This philosophical debate combined with keeping the reawakened shadows at bay is giving me a migraine.
Shakily, I stand and take my tray to the conveyor belt, food cold and stiff on the plate. I leave the mess hall, turning my back on the black-uniformed Eklyptors, trying not to think what it would be like to snap my fingers, then turn to find every single one of them lying on the floor, clutching their chests.
Some part of me thinks it would be wonderfully easy to end this war that way, while another part feels almost certain I’d be unable to live with that kind of god-like power and the guilt of being able to impart instantaneous death—no matter how well-deserved.
When I make it to the barracks, I crash on my bed and put a pillow over my head. The large room is blessedly quiet since everyone’s still at the mess hall. I want sleep to take me away, to erase my twisted thoughts and give me fluid dreams the shadows can’t chase. But sleep runs in the opposite direction, totally mocking me.
“Azrael,” a voice says right next to me.
I sit up with a start and send the pillow flying to the floor.
Lyra, in all her black-furred glory, is standing between her bed and mine, looking down at me with her round, green eyes. They are intense, angry even.
“Shit! You need a bell around your neck. What the hell?!” I stand, pick up the pillow and throw it back on top of the gray covers.
She ignores my little quip and drops the satchel she’s carrying on the floor. “What happened in the mess hall?”
I frown. “Huh?”
Is this about Elliot? No, it can’t be. She doesn’t know about my powers. I’ve never mentioned them to her. And even if I had, making the leap from knowing someone can move objects with their mind to suspecting they can crush someone’s heart is pretty extreme. Maybe she’s asking something different. Maybe something else happened after I left.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, deepening my frown.
Lyra narrows her eyes, which doesn’t quite have the mean effect she’s probably going for. The gesture just makes her look like a friendly, content kitten.
“I’m talking about Elliot, and his … episode,” she says.
“Episode?”
“Don’t play stupide.”
“Are you talking about him coughing in the middle of his speech? Maybe he has walking pneumonia.”
She snarls deep in her throat.
