Page 152 of A Sweet Destruction

“She’s probably on a ride,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

Just then, in an almost comical twist of fate, I saw a flash of white dart behind Soren, followed by a whine loud enough to shake the leaves out of trees.

We all watched as Starlight reared back on her hind legs, scaring the wits out of the group of people surrounding her, then took off into the tree line.

We were all running then, straight towards Peter’s office.

When we arrived, he was already staring at a tablet with wild eyes. “She kept her tracker on,” he said, almost hopefully.

Esme looked to me, her eyes welling with tears. I’d never seen her look so hopeless.

“Where was her last stagnant location?” I asked Peter. He rattled off coordinates with a hollow voice.

Shadow was already waiting for me outside, antsy in her own right. She knew something was wrong.

It took only a handful of minutes to get to the right spot, a little patch of meadow right outside of camp. It was a small oasis, soft land filled with wildflowers and shaded by towering trees. Right next to a bend in the creek that bubbled softly, a change from its normally crashing current.

I could see why Freya liked it. It probably felt like her own little world.

That it was, when we saw the bag hanging from a low branch. It was filled with enough books to make the wood bend and a few other things—a pair of sunglasses, a pencil, a nutrient bar.

A blanket was still laying out on the grass, a book open and face down. It was almost taunting, reminding us that Freya had been in the middle of something.

That she left before she could clean up after herself.

Left, as if she had a choice. She hadn’t, I realized, crouching down to pick up a small dart out of the grass.

The smell of poison was sharp, burning my nose.

When I lifted it up, Esme’s scream rent the forest in two, sending birds scattering away in fear.

Epilogue

Freya

I never understood why someone would want a Soul Mate. It seemed rather messy.

Objectively, I understood that most people who signed up for special services, signed up to find out if they were compatible with someone—enough so they could safely make a trip across worlds—had been spun a lie.

Someone spilled sweet, coaxing stories in their ear about lifetime companionship and great loves, and, hey, maybe you’ll walk away with a cool tattoo.

Maybe that was it. The tattoo I’d popped out of the womb with, a smattering of stars on my chest, my shoulders, my arms, one larger in the center, had always been treated as a curse.

Allegedly, my mother had screamed when she saw me, thinking something had gone horribly wrong in the womb and I was covered in black dots like a spotted dog.

My freckle pattern was a perfectly normal shade of orangey-tan. Exactly what would be expected of someone with my hair color and skin.

And yet, my mother’s screams set the tone. Immediately hidden away from prying eyes and gossips who would die at the chance to hold something over my parents, my father in particular, I’d been promptly shoved away into darkness.

I’d always thought the lie that I’d been stillborn was quite callous, but I didn’t have much of a say in anything in those early years. Still didn’t.

Though I didn’t really care to focus too much on the particulars, I’d been whipped around into unique torture after unique torture for twelve years, before the grand finale.

Having your parents willingly toss you through a rip between space and time was a formative experience, to say the least.

I figured it was that, along with other similar experiences, that gave me the skills to not freak out in my current situation.

Hands tied behind my back, mouth dry from dehydration likely caused by some poison or other. My body rustling around, shoving my shoulder painfully into whatever seat I was folded over.