Page 60 of The Second Death of Locke

“Very well, then. The second choice: I keep the boy, but only his freedom. You may have him as long as he remains here. Should he leave, his life again is forfeit.”

Grey stared at her, uncomprehending. “What… what does that mean?”

“If I breathe life into him,” Kitalma said, her eyes gleaming—they were black as the Isle’s cliffs, Grey realized. Black as the deepest part of the sea. “He can never again leave this isle. He will be as he was, as long as he remains here until the end of his days.”

Grey sucked a breath through her teeth. Kier’s freedom—she could not fathom cursing him like that, sentencing him to a life here, forever. “I cannot give you that.”

“Then the third choice: he may have his life and his freedom, and leave this place as he wishes. In return, you surrender to me your power. It is your choice, Gremaryse, daughter of Locke.”

Grey’s stomach dropped. Without her intending to, her hand went to her middle, palm pressed to her sternum, where she felt her power unfurling strong and true.

“Maryse…” Alma started.

But Isaak only watched her sadly. “What is love without freedom?” he asked. “Is that love at all?”

Grey met his gaze. It was like he had pulled the words directly from her own heart. “I cannot give my power,” she said through numb lips. “I am Locke. Kier isn’t a well—he can’t… There will be no grounding for the Isle.”

The old goddess raised a brow. “Do you doubt me?”

“No.”

“All will be well, daughter. Your own heir will continue the line of Locke,” she said, as if it was a foregone conclusion that Grey would have an heir.

“But without my power—”

“I could just keep his life,” Kitalma said flatly. “But the boy is already one of mine, by your own rite. If he lives, he would be connected to the very foundation of the Isle.”

Grey’s heart sunk. Torrin was right—she had no idea what she’d done, how she had changed him, when she had bound to Kier.

“I have given you choices. If you want his life back, you must either give me his freedom, or hand me your power. Remember, this is a mercy—I could leave him free and dead, and your power intact. Those are my terms.”

Grey forced herself to breathe. Here she was, fighting with a goddess. No wonder she always got written up for insubordination.

“I would prefer he not be free and dead,” she said.

The power mattered less; she could not imagine holding it without him.

The very idea of tethering to someone else made her sick.

She needed to think rationally, but she found it impossible—if she finished this conversation, she could have Kier back.

Whatever followed was a matter for the version of her who didn’t feel like this. “And what… When do I have to decide?”

Kitalma gazed up, as if she could see anything in the gloom. “Keep the Isle, daughter. You may have one cycle of the moon, and then we shall meet again, at my altar, and I will need your answer. Until then, I will give your mage back to you and await your decision.”

Grey chewed her lip, but what else could she do? She could barely think past her own grief—she did not know how she would be able to make a decision with his body there, in front of her. She did not know how she could look upon him, dead, and not die herself.

“Thank you,” she said, “for your mercy.”

“Very well. Go now,” Kitalma said, turning away. “It is not safe here, in the between, for one who is yet so alive.” She glanced over her shoulder at Grey as the mist rose and thickened. “Be careful, daughter. Iron, too, has its weaknesses.”

Grey turned to look at her mother, but she too was gone. They all were. She was alone in the misty wood.

“Grey?”

Her breath caught in her chest—not alone at all. She spun around to see Kier getting up from the altar, wincing at the way every movement jarred his broken bones. She stared at him, the words stuck in her throat, as he eyed her warily.

“Where are we?”

“We’re in the Ghostwood,” she said, the words barely making a sound.

He looked around, taking it all in. “I don’t… I don’t remember getting here.”

Grey shook her head. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could stop the ache of losing him, as if she could rip it out of her. “No,” she said, voice raw.

He stopped scanning and looked at her, his eyes warm and soft, his mouth tugging up into a relieved smile at the sight of her. He came close, his smile faltering as he reached very carefully to touch her face.

“My beautiful Locke,” he said, his fingertips only just brushing the bruise on her cheek. “Does it hurt?”

She did not know how to stop the pain, even now when he was standing in front of her. “Yes,” she said, the word sounding more like a sob.

She threw herself at his chest, not caring about the blood and dirt and seawater.

He made a low noise in his throat—she was obviously hurting him, ruinously prodding his broken ribs, but he didn’t care enough to push her away.

His good arm wrapped around her, holding her tight, and it was as if the entire world made sense again.

His freedom or her power. She gripped him tighter, as if she could will the choice away.

“Are we home?” he murmured in her ear, his voice a raspy whisper. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Yes,” she said, bittersweet. The relief was just as heavy as the power welling between them.

She found the tether and locked into it, pouring so much power into him that he jerked.

He shivered, then swallowed it down. She pressed her hand into his broken collarbone, forcing it back into place.

He rested his head on her shoulder, breathing hard, as she finished her work and moved her hand to run her fingers through his wet, wild hair. “We’re home.”