Page 134 of Harbinger

Buds sprout from the tree’s branches, tiny leaves unfurling from them like trembling wings. The black mold fades from its trunk. It’s the dead of winter, and it blossoms like it’s spring before bejeweled autumn leaves settle onto its branches.

“How?” I whisper.

He looks at his hands. “It’s a healing power.”

Something in his tone makes the words sound like a joke at his own expense. Like he can’t understand it and never will.

“What else can you do?” I ask. This magic isn’t like the birthright the Kindling ignites into nobles born into patron lines. Plus, we still have to study whatever power the Stars saddle us with, have to learn whatever patterns Ravenell harnessed. Patterns that are far easier to fuck up than perfect.

But this … What Hadrian has access to …

He lowers his arm, and the glowing patterns fade. “I don’t know all of what I can do, what every power I’ve claimed from another is,” he says. “The wrong kind of power can become poison.”

“Wait,” I say slowly. “You claim power?”

“When we come back to life the first time, we have only one power. Our birthright.” He pauses like he’s sure I need time to understand there’s a difference between the magic the Stars grant patrons and the one they give scions. “When we kill another scion”—he traces a lovely arrangement of arches and lines intersecting on his forearm—“we take theirs as vestiges. Some powers connect with our birthright. Some don’t. The vestiges that don’t take more time to assimilate before we can wield their magic. Sometimes years.”

My mind latches on to the word years and refuses to let go. No wonder they live forever.

I think of Bishop’s hands. The faint scars I’ve seen when he removes his gloves. The way he never lets his sleeves ride up. Why he’s always wearing that uniform with its high neck. This is what he’s hiding.

Power.

I can’t even fathom how much.

“That’s why Bishop hides the marks,” I say. “They would reveal what he is.”

“Scions usually cover them,” he explains grimly. “They’re a map of our abilities.”

I understand hiding them now, but …

“Wouldn’t that have intimidated the other scions back then?” I ask. “Why hide them?”

But he only laughs, the sound thin and more than a little humorless. “Never show your hand to other players.”

My pulse stutters like a quiet warning behind my ribs. “How does a scion defeat and collect another scion’s vestiges?”

“By killing them.” He doesn’t flinch when he looks at me.

“But you’re immortal.”

“All things must end,” he says, glancing into the distance like he’s looking for his own. “It’s the natural order.”

But my mind drags me back to the woods, the memory so clear that I can feel the smoke in my lungs. Feel the weight of Bishop’s body collapsing into my arms, his warm blood slick on my hands.

And then he walked into my room and shattered my whole world. There was nothing natural about it.

“Scions don’t end,” I say quietly. I still haven’t decided how to feel about that.

“We can,” he corrects me. “If you claim our heart in battle, you not only end our immortality, but you also collect our powers. All of them, including the vestiges we’ve taken.”

I stare at him, something clicking into place. The marks on his skin … on Bishop’s skin. A chill creeps down my neck. Bishop has killed other immortals. He is a heart collector. They all are. That’s what he didn’t admit to me that night. What I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

I focus on the fine lines on Hadrian’s arms. “You’ve killed other scions.”

His mouth thins to a line. “Yes,” he says. “That was a long time ago. I’ve made peace with it now.”

I don’t know what to do with that. Peace as a decision. Not absolution.