Page 48 of Death of the Glass Angel (Apotheosis #1)

Talon/Janus

My sister died by my hand. Given any other choice, I would have spared her. Death awaited her, be it by flame or blade. So I gave her the quicker end.

-Excerpt from Alfaris’ private journal

Badulf Esseg loomed over them, gaze cast downward. Pleasant scents wafted from the incense, burning in the dim light. Chatter filled the space as people had lost their solemnity in their impatience.

He missed something. A voice whispered.

He’s missing it.

Invariably, the voices repeated that phrase.

Raising his chin, Talon searched for Janus but didn’t see a neat bun of black hair or the silver embroidered ebony cloak.

“Oh, boy,” Talon muttered under his breath as he stood, spinning to get a better look around. Where could Janus have possibly wandered off to? Nobody was supposed to leave the chambers until judgment was passed.

He’s missing something.

Missing it. The voices echoed.

Missing what? Talon spun around again, now decidedly on edge.

“Looking for the same woman I am?” Felsin walked in front of him.

“Yes,” Talon answered. “Did you see her leave?”

“I saw her with Alfaris.” Felsin nodded at the western tunnel. “I can imagine the rest.”

Talon sighed. “I should go check on her.”

“We should hurry,” Felsin suggested. “We aren’t supposed to leave.”

Nodding his thanks, Talon squeezed through the crowd and stepped into the western hall. An unnatural hush fell over the chamber.

Chief Esseg’s voice carried from the tomb. “They have arrived.”

Talon tensed. Mist seeped through the walls, lining the edges of the floor and hugging the ceiling. Cursing, Talon whirled around.

Heras and Kahn stood opposite one another, eyes rigidly fixed ahead, hands clasped at their side. The crowd held its breath, awaiting judgment.

* * *

Janus dug her fingernails into her arms. Thin trails of blood seeped from her nails, staining her cloak. Swirling mist gathered around her, forming a pair of legs mid-stride. An unfelt breeze stirred that haze, the shape ever shifting, never solid.

Breath coming in quaking gasps, Janus slowly lifted her head. A featureless phantom towered over her, peering down on her crouched form.

A child. This phantom was no larger than a child.

Janus trembled as she gazed at the figure, searching for curls, for pink eyes, for a scar on the wrist where Eros had cut himself with Father’s blade.

The phantom said nothing. Did not move. And for its diminutive size, its presence towered over her.

“Eros?” Janus asked, voice hushed. She reached out a hand, fingers brushing ice-cold fog.

Thrumming in her satchel grew to a crescendo, grabbing Janus’ attention. She slapped her hand against it, hoping to still what hummed within.

Her hand touched the bag, and mist overtook her, painting the world in white. Janus reached for Eros’ wrists, but the fog parted, revealing. . . something else.

A field of blossoming flowers stretched under a sky filled with glittering stars. It wrapped the world like a blanket, curling around the crumbling cliff where flowers spilled into the sky.

A boy sat on a rock, eyes cast upward. Thick white hair gathered around his collar, stark black like his eyes. A girl stood behind him, arms clasped affectionately around the boy. She shared his features and youth—a sister.

Following their gaze, Janus gasped when she saw the images drawn above. A great, horned dragon was written in starlight, looming over the pair like a shade. A familiar voice emerged from the child’s lips: Alfaris.

“The Hierophant’s shadow,” Alfaris murmured. “Joins the stage. The Wheel turns beneath his unrelenting gaze.”

“Is that what you see?” The girl asked. “I see the World’s end—only the Tower remains.”

Standing, Janus trudged toward them, but it felt like heavy weights dragged her back to earth. The girl burst into starlight, fading away like dust carried by the breeze. Shadows gathered around Alfaris, thicker than night. From their embrace, a man clad in black stepped and offered the boy a hand.

Something vibrated beneath Janus’s hand, and she ripped it away from her bag. Jarred from the strange vision, she landed on her knees in the tomb.

Gasping, Janus found herself faced with the phantom again. Had she seen a memory—Alfaris’ memory?

The phantom stepped closer, frigid mist brushing Janus’ face.

“I’m. . .” Janus stuttered. “I’m sorry.” She blurted out.

The mist figure gazed down at her, unmoved.

“I know it’s not enough. I know that.” Janus’ voice warbled. “I know you have no reason to forgive me. You shouldn’t. But. . . I loved you. I never meant. . .”

Tears streaked across Janus’ face. She reached forward, wanting nothing more than to draw the figure into a hug—to take its hand. Her fingers brushed the cold fog again—a painful reminder that nothing tangible stood before her.

Only a phantom.

* * *

Talon bowed his head as the procession of the dead began.

Whatever the truth of these phantoms, Talon didn’t believe in the validity of this ritual—nobody but the Altanese did.

Seeing them now, gathered around the edges of the room in an orderly manner, his conviction wavered.

Silence blanketed the room, and an unbearable pause followed. Finally, the shapes stepped away from the walls. A vague silhouette in white passed through Talon, sending ice through his veins.

Shuddering, Talon gritted his teeth. Perhaps he had simply imagined harmony. Chaos swallowed the chamber as ghostly forms wandered the room aimlessly. Directionless. They drew closer to the tomb, one by one, and. . .

Talon blinked in disbelief. Each phantom passed through or circled Kahn, yet avoided Heras entirely.

Judgment had been passed. The spirits named Kahn false in accusing Heras.

Cursing loud enough for his voice to echo, Talon raced down the hall. Janus was alone in this hellish place, the perfect target for a hidden blade.

Something grabbed his arm. Drawing his dagger, Talon pressed it to his attacker’s throat.

Felsin dropped Talon’s arm. “Did you forget I was behind you?”

Lowering his blade, Talon’s heart raced. He had forgotten.

“I know the layout. Let me lead.” Felsin darted ahead of him.

The mist thickened in the lower levels of the tomb. Talon’s steps disturbed the fog, though it muffled his footfalls. He skidded to a stop as he heard something echoing deeper in the tunnels. A voice, crying out shrilly, though he could not discern the words.

Holding his breath, Talon tracked the source of the noise to his left and down. Turning down a bend in the hall, he raced through the darkness, hoping he was not too late.

* * *

All at once, the white haze engulfing Janus receded. The phantom looming over her finally twitched, turning on its heel and walking away. Leaping to her feet, Janus reached after it, hand passing through the fog of its arm.

The sight of its departure ripped her heart in two.

“Wait! Eros!” Janus called, breaking into a sprint.

Janus tore through the Monolith halls. Tombs flew past her as the hall descended deep into the earth. But no matter her urgency, the gap between them could not be surmounted.

Ten paces. Twenty. Thirty. Until the ghost was out of sight.

The final hints of fog dissipated, and Janus dropped to her knees, bones striking the stone floors. Had Eros heard her apology? Had it been accepted or rejected?

Had the ghost been Eros at all?

Breathing heavily, Janus looked around her. Beautifully carved sarcophagi surrounded her. The names on the plaques were unfamiliar, the soft light of the torches not enough to dispel the gloom. She caught her breath, sorting through her emotions.

A shadow darted across the walls. Out of the corner of her eye, it looked like a monster, a great dragon lunging with its maw. Janus gasped and reared away as a hand grabbed her arm.

Gemellus yanked Janus toward him, and she bumped into his chest. “I swear, girl, you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

“Gem!” Janus cried. A thousand emotions streamed from her, and she sank against him, exhausted.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. A white-haired old man, eyes black as night, approached, a lantern clutched in one hand. Alfaris looked her up and down. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Janus lied, voice cracked and dry.

“I should have known.” Gemellus wrapped a protective arm around her. “You were always a troublemaker.”

“I was only giving the young lady a tour.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“Hm.” Alfaris stepped closer, holding the lantern up to illuminate Janus. “When people stand in graveyards—even if they are not visiting someone familiar—they think of the people they’ve lost. You saw someone you loved in the mist, didn’t you?”

“But. . .” Janus hesitantly said, “Was it really him?”

“Who can say? The Altanese certainly think so.” Alfaris eyed the tomb closest to them. “As for me, I think people see what they want to see. But when there is no proof to shed light on the truth, anything and nothing could be the answer.”

Janus understood his meaning. Her heart throbbed, and her head ached. Nothing could prove that ghost had been Eros.

Nor could anything prove otherwise.

People saw what they wanted to see. . . Delving into the depths of her perfect memory, Janus summoned an image of her little brother. A happy image. On his ninth birthday, when they had taken a boat onto the lake.

Eros stood by the railing, brown curls fluttering wildly in the breeze.

Those brilliant pink eyes of his, the surrounding skin smudged by freckles, surveyed the passing water eagerly, pointing out every fish.

And, there. Janus paused the memory in her mind as Eros spun around and toothily grinned at her.

How was she supposed to move on and forgive when she lived and he did not?

Every time she believed the pain had passed, the wound reopened and bled anew.

Janus retreated as she always did, fleeing from her fears, from guilt and grief, allowing Des to take the lead so Janus could hide from the world.

Gemellus’ fingers dug into her arm. “Someone’s approaching from the north.”