Page 37

I drag in a desperate breath as Typhon’s fingers close around me, suddenly aware of how much his hand smells like Striker’s blood.

That furious hellhound blood that Striker once transfused into me to revive me and keep me alive. It was like lava pulsing through my body, heating me from the inside out, burning my inhibitions and, with them, my fears.

All these months since I became a full Fury, I’ve exercised the clinical ability to see the world around me in black and white, a painting whose parts were separated only by good and bad.

Since entering the maze… even before that… maybe from the moment I saw Striker again and his joy had hit me hard… other emotions have emerged.

The best is peace, but the worst is fear, and yet, what I feel now is anger.

Not vengeful anger. Not righteous wrath.

No, this is a purely selfish rage that makes me want to lash out because my future has been stolen from me.

What did Striker whisper to me?

Never let anyone silence you.

Well… I have a sliver of air, and I’m going to use it.

“Fuck you!” I scream even as Typhon’s hand presses against my throat. “Fuck you for giving up! Fuck you for letting go of your rage. Fuck you, Striker Draven! ”

Typhon’s claws stop tightening, and he blinks at me because clearly my rage is not aimed at him, and oh, he’s so fucking narcissistic that it shocks him.

“Fuck you for leaving me,” I scream.

Except… Striker wasn’t the one who left.

I was.

I simply flew away and left my friends behind.

“Fuck you,” I whisper, but this time, I’m aiming it at myself because when I had my power, and I had my safety, and I even had a new family, I didn’t look back.

And that’s okay because darkness has to be left behind.

But Striker means something to me, and I didn’t find out what, and now… I never can.

“I didn’t have the chance to choose you, too,” I whisper, my voice now a rasp against the pressure on my neck.

“You… what?”

Typhon’s forehead creases, and then, like lightning, his eyes fly wide.

He jolts back from me, dropping me so unexpectedly that I barely manage to activate my levitation power before I would have hit the ground.

I propel myself away from him as fast as I can, shooting across the air as he roars profanities at me, his anger turning into searing flames that spew from his mouth.

And then the flames turn to blood.

“What is this?” Typhon screams, stumbling back from me, tearing at his own chest with his claws as his torso caves inward with sickening cracks. “ What is happening? ”

His snake-like legs stiffen and snap, leaving his body to plummet to the ground. His claws retract, and his ribcage shatters, multiple bones seeming to implode in unison.

I can only watch, my lips parted in shock, while Typhon writhes, trying to use his hands and arms to keep his body together, one hand flying to his head.

That’s when his thoughts pour toward me in an astonishingly peaceful stream that defies the horror happening to his body.

Oh .

These are not Typhon’s thoughts.

They are moments in time. Extremely fragile, extremely important, fleeting in their duration, but more powerful because they were so precious.

They’re memories that Striker tucked away.

The first time he saw me, standing with my back to him, light flickering around me. A fire angel .

The first time I threatened him, telling him I’d gore him like I gored the harpy, and it made his beast happy.

The time he touched me with gentle intentions, spreading soothing lotion across the cuts on my face.

The time he wrapped a blanket around me… tried to tend to my wounds even though he had nothing left in his medical kit… kissed me… held my hand…

Tiny, fragile moments.

And then, even more powerfully, the first time he controlled his anger after he left the Academy, the first time he realized he was breathing instead of bottling his rage, the first time he stepped out of the Legion to visit the Academy again…

The scent of wildflowers. The drape of blue curtains. A beam of sunlight.

The chance to start again.

Acceptance.

The stream of memories and emotions stops.

Typhon is curled up on the ground, his body caved in on itself, his breathing shallow, one claw digging at his chest, scratching at the location of his heart, but for some reason, he can’t seem to pierce the skin there.

That small section of his chest has remained intact.

“Get it out,” he whispers. “Get it…”

His voice trails off, and then silence falls again.

I approach with caution, not taking his stillness for granted. It could be a ploy, although the damage to his body is visibly catastrophic.

He remains still, his eyes lifeless, but I’m not about to assume he can’t revive.

I may have regained my ability to feel, but I am a Fury, and vengeance will always be mine.

Extending my claws, I ram them against his throat, cutting through flesh and bone to tear off his head.

Then I strike my claws into his chest, ripping through the skin he was unable to pierce, creating an opening so I can reach for the heart that killed him.

A heart that belongs only to a piece of hell risen to the surface of the earth.

A heart full of darkness but capable of so much light.

Tears flood my eyes as I cut through sinew and bone, easily distinguishing Striker’s smaller heart from Typhon’s larger one and pulling Striker’s free.

Even though I know Striker is gone, and nothing can save him, I won’t leave his heart here in this field. I will carry all of him back.

I stumble on my way back to him. My mind and body are going into shock, and I forgive myself for it because even a Fury has her limits.

It won’t stop me.

As carefully as I can, I place Striker’s heart into his chest, and then I attempt to gather him up as best I can, holding his chest to mine, picking him up, and rising into the air with him.

I leave the monster behind but take my grief with me.