Page 34 of The Ember and the Emerald

I showed the image to Cluck Cluck. “My mom did this.” I’d recognize her artwork anywhere. Her talent always amazed me. “Good, huh?”

The chicken appeared unimpressed, but that was okay. We could work on her lack of taste another day. I traced my finger over Maybe-Andrea’s outline, trying to will away the blur. Alas.

I perused King Morris, on the page beside hers. Though unending sorrow and endless anguish lurked in his irises, he’d been a handsome man, definitely related to Ahav. He wore golden armor, just like the mountain man in my dream.

More proof that I’d seen the past. I squeezed my eyes shut and attempted to revive the images, hoping to discover details I’d missed. But even the details began to blur.

“What’s happening?” I muttered, dismayed. “Why are they dulling?” I mean, I hadn’t forgotten what I’d seen. But the smaller minutiae now escaped me.

“In a sea of specifics, specifics get lost,” Jasher muttered back. “Perhaps you should write everything down.”

Excellent idea. I dug in the pack’s side pocket for the pen, then turned to the end of the journal, where I noted everything I’d seen in the dream. I jotted down every detail I remembered, and yet, something niggled at me. My brain was too full to puzzle through it all.

Jasher was right. Specifics had gotten lost in a sea of specifics.

After everything that had happened, I required a mental reset.

The next thing I knew, I was flipping to another blank page. Sketching had always been my happy place. My pen danced over the paper, Elowen’s image forming. I didn’t know why I’d chosen her. Didn’t know why I depicted two different expressions, either. One side of her face was soft and adoring, while the other beamed cold fury.

I wrote a note in the margin: Friend or foe?

Next image. My hand moved of its own accord, adding lines and shades until the shadow woman and her partner peered up at me.

The note simply read: Who?

Next. Once again, I gave my hand free rein. My pace slowed the second I noticed who I was drawing. Heart drumming, I finished. The hard lines. The sharp edges. The burning sensuality beneath it all.

I glided my fingertip over Jasher in this half-shifted form.

“You cannot defeat Ian, Moriah, even with the Ember. You know this, yes?”

His husky voice ended my mental reboot before it reached completion. “I can. I will.” I must. “Quit being such a Tinny Tinman.”

He’d come down from his high perch and now occupied the shade of the twisted oak across from me, with his wings folded tight to his ribs and one leg stretched before him.

“Tinny Tinman?” He snorted, so like my Jasher I ached. “I sense my brethren. Legions gather. More every day. They wait only for the order.”

A spike of foreboding slid down my spine as images flashed in my head: of teeth and claws scrabbling under the earth, of a darkness thick enough to smother a crown.

Page edges cut my palm, so sharp I loosened my grip on the journal.

Cluck Cluck must have sensed my tension, because she came to her feet, pecking at the ground again.

“You feel your brethren, but I feel the Ember of Everlight.” I did? Maybe, maybe not. But the fastest route to Mount Emerald? Flight.

My gaze zipped to Jasher’s wings.

Nope. No trust. I couldn’t risk it. And how would Cluck Cluck react? Because yes, she was coming with us. I was practically her mother now. But even if I ordered Jasher not to dump us from his back while we were midair, he might find a loophole.

We’d have to walk. Unless I could reach the true heart of him.

“Mmm. This look in your eyes,” he purred. “I recognize it. You have a plan to win me to your side.”

I blinked. “My, my, my. Isn’t this interesting?” He’d just assured my victory. Now I was the one to grin. “I don’t need a plan. You’re remembering more about me all on your own. Softening.” No mere stranger would recognize my intentions simply by the glint in my eyes.

He gave a dismissive huff. “Don’t crown yourself the winner just yet. Have I recalled the little beauty who delighted me at every turn during our first quest? Yes. But not all the memories are good.” He lifted one shoulder, a shrug born of accusation rather than surrender.

“You mean the times I supposedly killed you,” I said.