Page 45 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

The salted surf slammed into my shins, stinging the scrapes carved across my skin, but the pain meant nothing. When trudging forward one numb foot at a time no longer sufficed, I dove beneath a white-capped wave and relished the slick feel of dried blood washing from my limbs, soothing the webs between my fingers as the sticky coating dissolved.

Another mission completed.

Another city freed. For now, at least.

I’d stopped counting the Renown I gave a one-way ticket to meet Jesus. Now the tide scraped away their tainted blood and carried it out to sea as thunder rumbled above me.

When my feet found sand again, I rose and marched toward the moonlit shore, scowling at the estate as bile and hatred bubbled up my throat.

“You should fucking be here.” The words came out in a growl as I wiped the water from my burning eyes and slick lips. “We should be celebrating. Show me something, Ally. Where are you?”

The air burned as it left my lungs, my skin prickling beneath the coastal breeze as it sent the palms hissing. It was the same plea I’d uttered with every heartbeat since the goddamned disaster that was the Siege of Santa Bloom.

I dressed mechanically in the hollow space we’d briefly called our room, then fought the urge to watch the abandoned estate go up in flames as I headed for the garage.

It was wrong that this place still existed when they didn’t. Walls once full of laughter now sang with ghosts, every ounce of joy extinguished when hers was.

I crossed the same lawn where I’d made her my wife exactly six months ago, gritting my teeth as sparks danced down my arms, itching for a fight.

The need had become insatiable—the need for bloodshed. For retribution.

Despite the temper begging me to unleash still more hell, the estate would stand. At least for another day. Some broken, mortal part of me thought that maybe, if I left it here for them, they could come back.

They’d make it home.

We’d get another chance to laugh and play drinking games around the kitchen table.

The image of Ansel dancing atop it while Aren roared with laughter slammed the door on that hope.

Masochistic of me to keep coming here. Truly cruel. But this was home—the one place we’d all known peace together.

Alec had left me a list of safe houses and resources before retreating to guide Fae through her delivery, shadows beneath his eyes. Between him, Nathara, and Magnolia, the girls were doing beautifully—or so he’d told me when he dropped in to help wrap up last night’s op.

Winnie.

That was her name. Winnifred Marie Carter.

They’d given her Alvara’s middle name to honor her sacrifice. She deserved more. Deserved her godmother there to guide her through this life.

What if she preferred flame to earth? Who would teach her to wield it?

I’d barely been able to look at the photos. Couldn’t bring myself to really see her. She was a reminder—a perfect, red-haired representation of how long I’d been failing my wife.

Alvara’s McLaren purred to life, and I slammed it into reverse. I needed the wind on my face, needed to feel the road moving beneath the tires and remind myself that the world was still solid. Still here. Still worth fighting for.

Because nothing in me wanted to keep going.

Not without her.

The engine swallowed the distant crash of the waves, and for a beat, I thought the stereo had broken.

I adjusted the station, the faint static giving way to guitar, and my heart clenched.

Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here was playing.

I couldn’t swallow.

My guts twisted into one great knot, held together by spite alone.