Page 39 of Kazimir

“Others will know,” Kazimir finished.

I was sure my pulse would snap my wrist bones. I gripped Kazimir’s hand tighter, let my head fall to his shoulder, and tried not to let the trembling become visible.

Archon’s expression softened infinitesimally. “There is no shame in fear. You have survived what would have destroyed many. But you must decide if you wish to pursue this. Once the process begins, it cannot be stopped.”

I tried to picture what “process” meant. A ritual? Brain surgery? I couldn’t even remember my mother’s voice—did I even have a mother? But even the idea of staying blank forever made me want to scream.

Kazimir must have sensed my panic. He wrapped his arm around me, pulled me to his side so that my entire body was pressed against him from thigh to shoulder. “You are safe here,” he said, his accent thicker than usual. “Nothing will happen unless you wish it.”

Archon’s eyes flickered to Kazimir and back. “The decision is Devon’s. I will abide by her choice.”

I wanted to ask a thousand questions. About who was after me, what I’d done to suffer these consequences, why the hell I recognized this man in my cells and not my mind. But the words got stuck behind my teeth.

I looked down at my hands, at the way Kazimir’s thumb traced soothing circles on my skin. “What if I say no?” I whispered.

Archon shrugged, a movement both perfect and casual. “You can live as you are. There is nothing wrong with beginning anew. The past does not define the soul.”

I felt something hard and beautiful snap into place inside me. I would not live my whole life in hiding. Not after everything that had happened to get me here.

I stood and straightened my spine and looked the angel dead in the eyes. “Then let’s do it. Whatever you have to do. I want to remember.”

Archon waited until I steadied myself. “Are you prepared, Devon?” he asked, his voice solemn, even a little gentle. “Once you remember, the world will see you. You will not be safe, not truly, until this is finished. But your fate will be yours to choose.”

Every instinct in me screamed to say no, to run upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom until the end of time. But with Kazimir here, I could do anything. I swallowed hard and nodded.

“I’m ready.”

Kazimir stood and moved to my side, his body angled between me and the window. He put both hands on my shoulders, grounding me, the pressure just shy of bruising. Archon stepped forward until his shadow blanketed us both.

He placed his right hand—broad and strangely soft—on the crown of my head. “Give me your hands,” he said, and held out his left, palm up.

I slid both hands into his, and the skin-to-skin contact was like plugging into a live wire. A charge crackled down my arms, through my core, all the way to my feet. I bit down hard on the urge to yank away.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

I did, and the world vanished.

Archon began to chant, the syllables rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed older than language itself. I didn’t recognize a single word, but every one felt like a hammer on an anvil, forging something in the dark.

At first, nothing. Just the black of my eyelids and the pulse in my ears.

Then the room dropped away. The floor was gone; the air was gone, and I was falling—not the slow-motion, dreamy fall from before, but a rocket-ride straight through the middle of the earth. I tried to scream, but there was no air, no sound, just the sensation of movement so fast it shredded my thoughts into sparks.

Suddenly, a world. A garden. The ground was soft and green under my feet, and the air was so fresh it hurt to breathe. Above me, the sky was blue—not regular blue, but a blue so deep and clear it made my chest ache. The sun was everywhere and nowhere, lighting every blade of grass perfectly. Birds sang, but not the birds I knew. They sounded like the laughter of children, or bells.

I was barefoot, and in a dress of white so fine it felt like mist. My hands were clean, no scars or burns, and when I touched my hair, it shimmered like moonlight. The memory of being human was there, but it was distant, the way you remember being a child: true but not relevant.

A shadow fell across the lawn. I turned, and there he was. Sariel.

He was enormous, at least a head taller than Archon, with hair so gold it was almost metallic. His wings were out—massive, iridescent, and edged so brightly they shone like flames. He wore white pants and a gold robe open over his bare chest, which seemed excessive but also exactly right for a celestial being. His eyes glowed with something that wasn’t quite light, but intent, focused and almost terrible to look at.

He approached with slow, predatory grace, every step deliberate. When he reached me, he lifted my chin with two fingers and stared into my eyes.

“Arielle,” he said, and my heart bucked at the name, a memory unspooling inside me. “Why do you run?”

My voice in this memory was different, higher and softer. “I am not running,” I said. “I have only come to see the garden.”

He smiled, but it was not a kind smile. “You never do as you’re told.”