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The large windows in the Guild building allowed every ounce of the moon’s glow in, gilding the room in silver. The time change was fucking with me. We had been bouncing around from city to city, looking for leads, and if we weren’t doing that, I was out every night looking for Neverra. A small flame of hope had flared in my chest when we had caught Dianna. Maybe now we could find Nev.
The mark on my finger was still there, but I checked for it compulsively. It meant she was still alive. If I were honest, it was the only thing that kept me going.
I rubbed my eyes. We were in a large conference room, files, books, and scrolls spread across the table. I was tired of reading and researching, looking for gods only knew what. I stretched my legs slowly, the chair beneath me creaking.
“You need more comfortable furniture here,” I said.
“Well, Logan, not everyone is six foot twelve.” Vincent smirked, a shadow of a line creasing his cheek. In most people, it would be an indication of his age. He looked like he was in his thirties, but he was actually closer to two thousand. He had tied all his hair back, but a few pieces of the silky straight strands fell into his face. Vincent refused to cut it any shorter, wanting to keep the look we’d maintained on Rashearim, whereas I preferred to blend in as much as possible.
“Funny.” I looked around, seeing that only the two of us remained in the room. “How long did I sleep?”
“I woke you when you started to drool on ancient texts.”
I flipped him off. “Where are the others?”
“Imogen is still at the council. Samkiel just got back from rebuilding a city and is showering.” Vincent brushed his hair from his face, his stress apparent in his disheveled appearance. His expression hardened, his eyes boring into me as he continued. “Cameron and Xavier are on babysitting duty.”
I nodded, rubbing a hand over the fresh fade haircut Samkiel had forced me to get. Funny how the tables had turned. Now he was watching me, ensuring I was not falling apart when we all knew he was hanging on by a thread.
Vincent opened another book, his movements jerky. “Why are they downstairs with it? Are we sure that’s safe?”
“Why do you talk about her like that?” I asked, folding my arms.
Vincent snorted under his breath. “Why don’t you? Why is everyone okay with how he acts with her or the fact that she is still breathing after everything she’s done? She attacked our brothers and sisters and stole from us. I feel like the council is the only one thinking smart right now. She needs to be executed.”
There was venom in his voice, and I knew he meant every word. “Dianna isn’t Nismera.”
His shoulders tensed, but he remained focused on the book in front of him. “Damn close.”
I knew he didn’t want to talk about the goddess who created him and then abused him in ways he still couldn’t speak of, but I knew that’s what had been eating at him. He saw in Dianna power and malice, and it sent him spiraling back to the time he spent with that bitch, Nismera.
“You can’t blame her for what happened to you, either.”
“Can you just stop? I’m not.”
“You are, Vincent.”
He shook his head, biting at the corner of his lip, his irritation rising. “You can seriously look at her, see what she does and not fear her? Fear for others?”
“Yes,” I said honestly.
“Gods, if I didn’t see the mark on your finger, I would think she had you whipped too.”
“You know why I can look at her and not fear her?”
He shrugged. “Enlighten me.”
“Her sister.” I leaned back, folding my arms. “Neverra and I lived with her for months while they were off looking for that book. The stories Gabby told us, the pictures she showed us. Her eyes lit up when she spoke of Dianna and their adventures together. She was mortal once, and the change only affected her physically, not emotionally, not her heart or soul. Gabriella loved her with every part of her. Dianna would have died for her sister, and Gabby’s death broke her.”
Vincent sighed deeply and tapped his fingers against the book he held.
“What do you think would happen if I lost Neverra? Truly lost her? Do you think I would mourn, cry myself to sleep? Or would I hunt every single person responsible? Make them pay, make them hurt as I do?”
“That’s different.”
“It’s not, not really. It is a different expression of love, but it is, at its base, still love. Pure and simple, grief is a product of love, Vincent. Gabriella was her last living family member, and he killed her. How would you feel if we all died? If you were left with no one?”
Vincent didn’t respond. He just looked at the book in front of him while I waited.
