Page 24 of Death of the Glass Angel (Apotheosis #1)

“No.” Felsin shook his head. “Fate is not a script.” He said cryptically, stepping forward to place a warm, comforting hand on her arm.

Distracted by the heat and presence behind her, Janus’ attention wavered from the observatory’s incredible ceiling. Alfaris caught her eye and nodded his head up.

“I don’t see anything,” Janus said.

“Perhaps you aren’t looking in the right place.” He suggested. “Look at it from whatever angle you wish.”

Accepting his offer, Janus wandered the circular room, eyes darting up and down, watching the sky shift with every step. Stacks of luggage littered one corner while books and parchments were piled upon a table. A large aquarium housed a small turtle, happily chewing on a piece of lettuce.

Assorted baubles littered a display case, too many for Janus to observe in a single glance.

Glancing nervously over her shoulder, Janus wandered to the table and looked over the papers.

Most of these were not academic but rather.

. . stories? Books of childish adventure and a few epic poems. A case contained a nugget of strange metal, clearly a raw lump yet lustrous like refined steel.

But a note caught her attention, tucked beneath two books.

You’re meddling.

Or did you not mean for him to die?

Every step we take will have consequences. I taught you that a long time ago. Paths paved with good intentions lead to inevitable ruin, and our only salvation lies behind deceit and death.

Take the boy in if you must, but do not grow attached to him. He will die before the end. By your own hand.

A scrap was all that remained of the letter, and it was unsigned, but Janus recognized the handwriting. Pretty, but uneven; penned by a blind hand. This was from Gemellus.

“Interested in that, are you?”

Janus jumped out of her skin and spun around to see Alfaris watching her. Stuttering, she scrambled for an excuse, settling on the strange rock. “What is this?”

“Ah.” Alfaris walked over and picked up the case, turning it over. He did not sound angry. “Anmarite.” He tapped the glass. “An ore found in small deposits in the Altanese mountains.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Janus said softly. Eros had been fascinated by rocks. This kind, in particular. She’d never cared; never listened. Another regret.

“I’m surprised. Anmarite has no use and is difficult to mine. You see, it’s resistant to heat, and any attempt to shape it in a traditional forge has failed.”

“Um. Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” Alfaris set the case back on the desk.

“Did you study that at Valeria?”

Alfaris laughed. “Do I look like I studied at Valeria?”

“I figured you met Gemellus there. Maybe you taught him. . .” Janus trailed off.

No, that wasn’t right. The letter from Alfaris implied he had been a child when Gemellus took him in. But Gemellus looked no older than forty-five. The math didn’t add up.

“Or did he teach you?”

“If I could claim a tutor, it would be Gem,” Alfaris confirmed. “It’s kind of you to imply I had a formal education. Most think me a wild eccentric.”

“Everyone but Felsin thinks so, huh? How did you two meet?”

Alfaris stared at the case before picking it back up again. He palmed it as he paced towards the aquarium. “I was acquainted with his parents.”

Janus trailed after him. “You know Royal Chief Heras?”

“Yes.”

“What’s she like?”

“If I had to describe her in a word, I would choose ambition,” Alfaris said thoughtfully. “Maybe it would be easier to show you.”

Glancing back at the cluttered desk, Janus started as Alfaris grabbed her shoulders and tilted her chin to stare at the stars.

But this time, something happened.

The sea of celestial bodies morphed and stretched, the stars brightened and grew. It was terrifying, like a maw widening to swallow her whole. Janus wanted to tear her eyes away and run, but she couldn’t move.

Flickering and pulsing, the stars scattered as a constellation took shape—the vague outline of a woman crowned by a celestial headpiece appeared in starlight.

Flashes of figures, white silhouettes against the dark backdrop, moved within the constellation’s borders. Janus recognized one, its curly hair and proud posture—Chief Heras. A flicker of red swirled around her waist—the color of the Gaevral clan.

Her hand shot above her head, commanding. Soldiers gathered around her, bodies quivering and shaking unnaturally. They stood taller than any man and jerked back and forth as though in deep pain. Heras pointed into the distance, and the soldiers marched, heading to war.

The sky shifted. Janus felt like she was atop a horse, galloping deeper into the starry sea, flying faster than any bird. The horrible sense of inertia and motion ceased as a new star drew into focus.

Another constellation appeared, and Janus winced as the stars brightened into the pattern of a man hanging from the gallows. Within the constellation, the sky darkened, creating a stage for the bright silhouettes to dance.

A woman appeared again, one Janus did not recognize; short, with plain hair. She stood before a great dragon, its head rising to reveal a pair of enormous horns, similar to those of a deer. Its wings spread around the woman, engulfing her in darkness.

Janus gasped as the sky shifted again, tearing her away from one scene to another. Her vision bolted through the sky, traveling to a new constellation.

A dragon appeared in the stars. The white silhouette of a familiar man appeared in the dark canvas of its wings. Tall with wavy hair, a cloth trailed behind the man as he strode forward confidently.

Gemellus raised his arms, and Janus could feel the grin spreading across his face. The world collapsed around him, raining chunks of rock from above and cracking the earth below. Janus lunged forward, reaching for Gem as the dragon constellation was swallowed by shadow.

But there was no time to linger; the great sky was already shifting, metal rings spinning as it focused on a new star.

A great tower appeared in white, crowned by a clock with great wings. A small figure rose from its knees, hair thrown wild in the breeze—herself.

The other Janus extended a hand, as though beckoning to someone. Fire caught on her palms, raging white in the dance of silhouettes. It consumed everything around her—the tower, the wings, and the black sky.

Janus shrieked. But she couldn’t hear her voice. The sky was already changing.

A metal ring spun overhead, framing the final constellation. Star by star, it took shape: a skeletal figure shrouded in tattered cloth, a scythe clutched in a bony grip.

A roguish figure walked within its bounds, hair stylishly messy, hands tucked in his coat pockets. He tossed a coin and caught it—Talon. A shadow stretched behind him, darker than the night sky.

Blood seeped from the stars, spreading over the sky as a woman appeared behind Talon and drove a dagger into his back. They twisted the handle and yanked it out, and the constellation collapsed as Talon fell forward onto his knees into a puddle of blood and died.

Everything snapped back to reality. Janus crumpled, hands pressed to her face, stifling a scream.

What had just happened?

Gasping, Janus stumbled to her feet, trying to make sense of what she’d seen. Alfaris grabbed her shoulder, steadying her. She looked up, desperate to see more. But only a single star danced in the black sky, flickering and far away.

“How did you-” Janus spun around.

“I showed you fate,” Alfaris said calmly.

Closing her eyes, Janus replayed the memory in her head. She could recall it. What she had seen was real.

“Alfaris,” Felsin said, an edge to his voice. “Should you have-”

“Have you found your answer?” Alfaris asked.

No, no, of course not! Janus hardly understood how the sky had changed, let alone what any of it meant.

“What did you see?” Felsin knelt beside her, taking her hand.

Taking a breath, Janus recounted the starlit visions. Her, the tower, the dragon. . . everything.

Felsin’s eyes darted around. “You saw Talon’s shadow, but not yours?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I see you, up there, I see your shadow, too.” He paused. “Sometimes, it takes the lead.”

A faint memory danced in Janus’ mind. ‘Do I speak to the princess or her shadow?’

Talon had one, too?

Unsettled, Janus peered back at the stars. They remained silent, unmoving. Answers would be better found by fishing through Alfaris’ things, by finding the remainder of the letter from Gemellus.

But dare she cross a man who had the power to do the impossible? Whose magic should not exist?

“Janus,” Felsin prodded gently. “What you saw. . . I think I have, too.”

She gasped. The pieces fell into place. The tower had been her. The great horned dragon matched the pattern on the rosebush card—illusion. Death marked Talon, the blow dealt by a woman’s hand.

This was the same fortune Felsin had pulled but days earlier. The Tower. The Priestess. Death.

And Illusion.

First, it had claimed Eros. Now, Talon would meet his end by Janus’ hand.

* * *

Janus finished tying her saddlebags and shifted to watch Alfaris run a hand down Taniyn. The horse gravitated to the old man, happily nuzzling its broad head against him. Someone once said you could trust those with whom animals felt comfortable. Janus wondered how true that was.

“Alfaris,” Janus asked.

“Yes?”

“Why did you show me that?”

“The stars show us paths. Signs,” Alfaris explained. “Fate is not a script.”

“But I don’t understand. How can you see it at all? I’ve never heard of this. . .” Janus shook her head. “Magic.”

“Few can grasp what lies beyond.” Alfaris smiled wanly. “The glance behind steals away the chance to change the foretold end. And you, Janus, more than anyone else, cannot turn your eyes forward.”

Janus frowned. “You’re as cryptic as Gemellus. No wonder you two are friends.”

“Nonsense. I’m far more direct than he is.” Alfaris gazed up at the darkening sky thoughtfully. “You are shaken. I am sorry if I frightened you.”

The old man seemed genuine. Kind. But the letter Janus found said otherwise. “What did that letter mean?”

Alfaris tilted his head down. “On your path, there is a great pine split in half from a lightning strike. When you reach it, turn west and travel about a mile.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Perhaps something will be waiting for you there.” Alfaris patted Taniyn, ignoring her. “Fair travels, my lady.” He tucked his hands together, hiding them beneath his robes, as he returned to his observatory.

Felsin offered her a hand. “He’s always like that.”

Dragging her gaze from the observatory, Janus let Felsin help her onto Taniyn’s back. “How can you stand it?”

“He makes a damn good stew.” Felsin joked, riding alongside Janus. “Fate is not a script.” He said idly. “So Alfaris says, but everything I’ve glimpsed comes true.”

“And, it’s never clearer than that?”

“No.”

Janus ground her jaw. She would never hurt Talon. Surely fate would not come to pass?

But she had not meant to harm Eros, either. . .

Felsin leaned closer, staring over her shoulder. “What did he say? A trunk split in two?”

Sitting upright, Janus scanned the trees dotting the mountainsides. An hour passed them by as evening approached. Though her vigil had been waning, Janus shot to attention as a tall pine appeared amidst the mountains, its trunk split in twain and its two halves bent apart, charred black.

Pausing, Janus looked west. Thick forest waited off the road. Yanking Taniyn’s reins, she galloped off the path.

“My lady-” Kalid jolted in his saddle.

“This way.” Janus rode off before her men could protest. Felsin’s horse bounded past them, sprinting after her.

A mile. Janus watched the thin pines fly by as Taniyn ran through the wilderness, counting the distance. She pulled Taniyn to a stop a few minutes into the ride and scanned the trees, dismounting to get a better look.

Her boot slammed into something hidden in the underbrush, and Janus backed up. Felsin grabbed her, pulling her behind him protectively as she stared at the strange lump.

No, not a lump. A body.

One of Janus’s guards rushed forward, flipping the corpse over. Blood coated his front where his throat had been slit and chest punctured, but Janus recognized the thin hair and unremarkable face.

This was the assassin the city had been searching for. The one who had escaped.