Page 225 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

He arched a brow. “Is that what we’re doing?”

“No, dipfuck, we’re addressing what you just said, and then I’m going to ruin your day.”

“Sounds great,” he deadpanned, but to my relief, he followed. At the end of the red-carpeted aisle, I misted between worlds onto the stage, solidified, and yanked the sheet off the grand piano with theatrical flair.

“It’s almost like they knew you were coming or something.”

“Freya,” he scolded. “I don’t have time for this.”

“But you have time for me,” I demanded, popping a hip and cocking my head in one movement. “Right?” His shoulders slumped as he glared up at me. “Because I’ve hardly seen you in months, August. Because you just brought up Ansel’s death like I wasn’t a foot away when he was fucking decapitated—like the rest of us aren’t hurting just as bad as you are.”

“Freya—”

“No. No. You might not have time to take care of you, but I’m telling you that your little sister needs to talk. Not just to shit on your already shit-tastic day, but because I don’t have the first clue how to deal with Cyrus right now, and I need my big brother’s advice.”

His eyes dropped before flicking around the room, landing on the piano one beat before he shook his head and took a step back. “I can’t, Freya. I’m sorry, but I just…”

“You’re just going to suck it the fuck up and come and play with me.”

“Freya.”

“Freya needs one goddamn moment of normalcy!” I snapped. I didn’t have to fake the tears in my eyes. Didn’t have to force the crack in my voice. He seemed to see it or sense it. Either way, August sucked down a long breath before taking slow, measured steps toward me and up the short stairs to get on the stage. Every movement looked like someone had a gun to his head, but he made them. Made them for me.

Before he could change his mind, I stepped around the magnificent black instrument and settled on the bench, glaring up at him pointedly.

He flexed and balled his shaking hands before nodding.

August sat beside me, his heat, his scent, his entire presence settling the piece of me desperate to run from everything. To crawl into the depths of my soul and bail. Vanish like I always did. Because when it came down to it, we were the same. We loved our people deeply, and the fear of failing them was enough to drive us both mad. Solitude was easier than hurting the people we loved—or watching someone else do it.

When August only stared down at the keys as though he saw a ghost, I cleared my throat, straightening my spine before setting my fingers on the polished ivory.

I wasn’t my brother. I’d never been a concert pianist, but our mortal mother forced me through classes for years just so I had the basics.

Making a mental note to swing by the human wing of the dorms to thank her, I started to play. Clumsy, at best. But there was something comforting about the slick keys beneath my fingers, about the soft melody filling the grand hall—dark and abandoned, as lonely as the rest of us.

I fumbled more than once, giving myself permission to suck. To pause and begin again. To try a little harder with each fresh start.

August sat. Watched. Slowly, he closed his eyes, head moving with the melody even as I stumbled over the notes. Like his body couldn’t ignore it even if his mind wanted to, he rocked with every shift in tempo. Only as I gritted my teeth through the crescendo did a second set of hands find the piano.

And the music came to life.

Just like always.

With his eyes still closed, August began to play, adding intricacies I could never have managed—those broad hands good for far more than an impressive propensity for bloodshed. Hell, I might as well have sliced him open for how fluidly it poured out of him now; lifeblood made melody. I stopped playing and watched as he twisted the song darker, richer, more desperate. Melancholic. I’d always loved music. Envied the way it lived inside my brother—as vital as air or blood.

A drop of water hit the keys, and I looked up to his face—to his still-closed eyes—as another tear fell, my stomach dropping as my own eyes welled, the bridge of my nose burning.

For him.

For Ally.

Blythe.

Ansel.

For the mortals as they fought for their very right to exist.

For a world so dark, the angel before me looked like he was losing his grip on reality.