Page 42 of War Queen
The tears came again, and she lay her head on his cold shoulder. Cold like the room. Like tomorrow, and every day after now. She’d brought this. She’d done this to him. To herself. To Adrian—oh gods, Adrian. And Catherine. How could she even face them again? She wanted their anger, their wrath. She needed it. She deserved no kindness, even in the bitter depths of her grief and loss.
There was a tremor in her mind, and she brought her fingers to her temples. She was exhausted, but she knew sleep wouldn’t come. Not that it mattered—she didn’t deserve sleep either.
A stirring rippled through the room, and Norah felt eyes on her. Her skin prickled. She lifted her head to see a man standing at the other end of the mortium, between two pillars in the shadows.
Just standing.
Watching.
She narrowed her eyes to focus better. And her breath left her as her chest seized.
Alexander.
She shook as she glanced down at his lifeless body under her hands, then looked back up at him on the other side of the room. Alexander was dead, right in front of her.
Yet his exact likeness stood at the edge of the room, as in life.
How?
“Alexander?” she breathed.
He was different—his hair was clipped shorter, and he was dressed in dark breeches with a gray tunic. His eyes were fierce, his face full of anger as he looked upon his body.
“Alexander?” she called again.
His attention jerked, his stare moving up from the body on the table slab to find her, as if just noticing her for the first time, and he took a step back.
“Is it really you?” she asked him.
His brow relaxed from its hold of anger, but his eyes gave way to alarm. No recognition came from him, no warmth. He backed farther into the shadows, and she feared she’d lose him.
“Wait!” she cried. “Don’t go! Please.”
He paused as she staggered up and drew around the table, closer to him.
“How is this possible?” she whispered. “How are you here?” She swallowed back a cry.
He shifted, leaning back on his heel, still on the verge of flight.
“Do you not know me?” Is this what death did to a man’s spirit?
Alexander neither moved nor spoke, but he watched her apprehensively as she came closer—close enough to touch him.
She brought her hand up hesitantly to his face, but he pulled back. His eyes didn’t know her. “It’s me,” she whispered, crying softly. “It’s me, Norah.”
He didn’t respond, but his stance eased ever so slightly.
Markings on his neck caught her eye. Ink markings—different from the markings Mikael and Soren wore, yet they seemed familiar. When he noticed her gaze on them, he reached up to cover them and pulled back, his alarm returning. He retreated farther into the shadows.
“Wait!” she called to him. “Alexander!”
But he stepped backward, into the darkness, and disappeared.
“Wait! Don’t go!” She ran past the columns and into the shadowed hall, looking desperately for him. “Alexander!”
The darkness swirled around her, and she woke abruptly, sitting up at the table beside Alexander’s body once again. She jerked her head to her right, and then her left, scanning the room. She was alone. A cold sweat beaded on her brow, and her heart thundered in her chest. She forced herself to take deep breaths, willing back the calm.
She’d been dreaming.
