by Jenna Black
I no longer heard any gunfire, nor did I hear thunder from thrown lightning bolts, but I approached the area with caution anyway. I could tell we had won because I caught sight of Logan and Maggie sitting side by side on the grass in plain sight. They had both removed their body armor and put away their weapons, so I stepped out of the jungle and onto the grass to get a better look at what this night’s combat had wrought.
The house and its environs looked every bit like the battlefield it had recently been. There were char marks and bullet holes on every wall, and I couldn’t see a single unbroken window. Two trees had fallen. From the black scars around their bases, I guessed they’d been taken down by lightning bolts. The lawn and driveway were spotted with puddles and scattered with leaves and broken branches, as if a hurricane had just blown through.
And then there were the bodies.
It looked like Cyrus’s men were in the process of laying all those bodies out in an orderly row, having moved the ones that Sita had killed so that they were all lying side by side. As I watched, a couple of Cyrus’s men emerged from the house, carrying bodies over their shoulders and then slinging them roughly to the ground beside the rest. I was glad not to recognize any of my friends among the dead, but I very much wanted to see them with my own eyes. Especially Jamaal, who was at least wounded even if he wasn’t dead.
I spotted Cyrus strolling down the driveway from the street, and I rushed over to meet him. His clothes were drenched and his hair looked like it had been put through a blender, but except for the haunted look in his eyes and the exhausted droop of his shoulders, he seemed unhurt.
“Have you seen Jamaal?” I asked as I caught up to him. Then I realized I was being almost as selfish as an Olympian, because Cyrus had no way of knowing that we’d convinced Niobe to give up her vendetta. He’d put himself and his closest friends at risk to help save the world, and he deserved to know that his efforts had not been in vain.
I hurried through a quick explanation that probably didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but at least it made me feel marginally less insensitive. Of course I ended by repeating my question about Jamaal, so I’m not sure I earned all that many brownie points.
“He’ll be all right,” Cyrus said, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. “He took one shot to the shoulder and one to the chest, but by the time we found him the wound was already starting to heal. Maggie laid him on a couch inside so he’ll be more comfortable when he comes to.”
I wanted to run directly to Jamaal’s side, but I would be useless there. Even not having firsthand knowledge of how severe his wound was, I knew he wouldn’t be regaining consciousness anytime soon.
Two more men emerged from the house carrying bodies. My stomach considered raising an objection to the sight of so much blood and guts, and I wasn’t completely happy to discover that my recent life had desensitized me enough to make the reaction manageable.
“Did we lose anyone?” I asked. “For good, I mean.”
“No, we didn’t lose anyone,” Cyrus said with a bit of a bite. “I, on the other hand, lost two good men to a couple of Descendants I wouldn’t have trusted to tie my shoe even before they betrayed me.”
“I don’t suppose their newfound immortality did them a whole lot of good.”
Cyrus’s smile was unusually fierce for him. “No, it did not. My own Descendants held their own in the battle, and I was happy to be able to reward each of the survivors as he or she deserved.”
By which he meant he’d allowed those survivors to kill the wounded traitors and steal their immortality. I looked at the collection of bodies that was still growing larger. “How many Descendants did you end up bringing with you?” There seemed to be an awful lot of dead people.
“Not quite enough to take care of every traitor. We’ll have to take a couple of them back to D.C. and harvest them later.”
I tried not to shudder. If I had to die, I’d much rather it be in the heat of battle with as little warning as possible. I didn’t think the last days and hours of the traitors’ lives were going to be much fun.
I’d held still and gathered information for as long as I could bear. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about the fates of others, but I couldn’t pretend any of them were half as important to me as Jamaal was. And what I needed most right now was to see him and reassure myself he would be all right.
On my way back to the now thoroughly beat-up house, I forced myself to stop one more time and give Maggie a hug and tell her I was glad she was safe. She had a lot of blood on her, but it turned out none of it was hers. She’d gotten sick and tired of seeing the men trying to carry the wounded around and had insisted they let her do the heavy lifting.
She led me inside, and I saw why our invasion force had been occupied for so long. There were barricades everywhere—now all destroyed, of course. There wasn’t a single room our men inside could have entered without a fight. Maybe Niobe had been expecting Anderson all along. That would explain both the barricades and her decision not to be inside the house for the battle.
Jamaal was lying on a torn couch in a debris-strewn living room. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but when I saw him lying dead on that sofa, I practically collapsed with sobs. Maggie stayed with me, hugging me and murmuring soothing sounds I couldn’t decipher.
“He’s healing nicely,” she told me when the worst of the crying jag was over. “He’ll be as good as new in no time.”
I knew it was true, but logic was a poor weapon to combat the visceral punch of seeing him like that.
Jamaal is a large man, and finding room for myself on the couch beside him was a challenge. However, I wriggled, squirmed, and pushed until I got enough of my butt onto the couch to sit.
Maggie had pried him out of the body armor and had obviously cleaned up the worst of the blood. There were dark, crusty stains on the torn-up remains of his undershirt, but the skin around the open wounds was pristine, and his face had been washed clear of blood and sweat and grime. I touched his cheek gently and shuddered to find it cold. Then I forced myself to look at the bullet wound that had killed him, the one straight through the center of his chest. The edges were visibly puckered, and it looked like it was at least a few days old. It was undeniable visible evidence that he was healing, that he was still Liberi, that he would soon be coming back to me.
I took one of his hands and clasped it between mine, even though he couldn’t feel the touch. Then I bent and touched my lips to his, wishing I could kiss him awake like a prince in a fairy tale.
I didn’t consciously notice any sound, so I’m not entirely sure how I knew I was no longer alone. I sat up and turned my head without letting go of Jamaal’s hand. The wound had healed enough by now that the spark of life could come back at any moment, even if consciousness was still an hour or more away. Maybe he couldn’t feel my touch while he was unconscious, but damned if I was going to let go.
I wasn’t surprised to see Anderson standing there in the shambles of what had probably once been a cozy living room. He looked different to me somehow, older and more worn. Or maybe that was all just in my head. I knew things about Anderson now that I could never un-know, and though he had manned up and offered a considerable sacrifice for the good of everyone, I couldn’t forget how he had bludgeoned Cyrus and Violet and Niobe with his threats. Considering his frightening level of power, it wasn’t entirely surprising to find out he had the heart of a bully, but it wasn’t a comfortable thing to know, either. I couldn’t entirely say I was unhappy that he would be going away for a while, even if I knew I would miss him once he was gone.
“You have put me to shame more than once in recent memory,” he said quietly, giving me a sad little half smile.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.
Anderson looked down to where my hands were wrapped around Jamaal’s. He nodded and put his hands in his pockets, looking unsure of himself. It was an expression that sat oddly on his face. I’d never entirely bought int
o Maggie’s theory that he had the hots for me, but I was long past the point of dismissing the notion out of hand. Maybe that was longing in his expression, or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter.
“You’re good for him,” Anderson said with what sounded like approval.
“We’re good for each other,” I corrected, squeezing Jamaal’s hand between my own. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought perhaps his skin felt just a touch warmer.
Anderson cocked his head as if thinking, then nodded. “I never would have expected it, but I suppose you’re right.”
A long, uncomfortable silence descended, and I didn’t know how to break it. The house creaked with footsteps and echoed with voices as Cyrus and his surviving men continued the cleanup. After the place had been turned into a supernatural war zone, I would have expected to have emergency vehicles coming out of our ears, but there was not a siren to be heard. I had no idea how Cyrus managed that, but I was too exhausted and wrung out to care.
Anderson took another couple of steps into the room. I wished he would just go away and let me sit with Jamaal in peace. As important as Anderson had become in my life over the last few months, I found now that I had nothing to say to him. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of him.
“Do you have any concept of how many lives you saved today, Nikki Glass?”
I understood where he was coming from, but honestly, I hadn’t done much of anything.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he scolded, although I still hadn’t said anything. “You came up with a mutually acceptable solution when it seemed no such thing existed. There’s far more to you than meets the eye.”
“Thanks. I think.” I hoped he wasn’t expecting a big hug-it-out session, because he wasn’t getting one. I certainly didn’t hate him, but I couldn’t say I much liked him anymore, either.
“I want to . . . hire you to manage my affairs while I’m gone.”
That threw me for a loop and seemed to come out of nowhere. “Huh?”
“I’ll need a trustee. Someone who has the legal right to make decisions about the house and property in my absence.”
I frowned. “Isn’t that more up Leo’s alley?”
“I’ll ask him to manage my finances, but the house I want to leave in your care. I’ll put my things into storage and you can take over my wing.”
I sat there and blinked up at him, very aware of the undercurrents beneath his words. Sometimes a house isn’t just a house.
“Don’t you think you should put that on someone who’s lived in that house for more than, like, five minutes? You have several to choose from.”
He shrugged. “My house, my rules.” It was a common refrain, one we’d all heard more than once. He fixed me with a penetrating look. “And while you’re the caretaker, your house, your rules.”
Yup. Definitely more than a house we were talking about. “I don’t think—”
“Please do this for me. There is no one I would trust more.”
I huffed out a sigh. “You’re making an awful lot out of what was just a last-second burst of inspiration.”
He had the nerve to laugh at me. “I’m making a lot out of you coming up with the idea that saved the lives of billions of people? Really?”
Okay, when you said it that way it did sound like a pretty big deal. But it didn’t make me into an automatic candidate for queen of the universe, or whatever it was Anderson thought.
“Who did everyone look to when I was in the Underworld?” Anderson asked, trying a different tactic. One that made me squirm because it was hard to deny his implications. “You’re the right one for the job, Nikki. You know I’m right.”
Never in a million years would I have seen this . . . complication . . . coming. I didn’t want to be the new Anderson. How does one step into the shoes of a god?
I had no freakin’ clue. But it seemed I didn’t know how to say no, either. I’m not sure my halfhearted chin-dip was much of a yes, but it seemed to satisfy Anderson.
“Thank you,” he said with quiet dignity. Then he left me alone with Jamaal, who had just started to breathe again.
Jamaal was alive but unconscious when I asked Maggie to help me get him out of that house and back to the comfort of the cottages. There was still plenty of cleanup happening at the scene of the battle, but I didn’t offer to lend a hand. Maggie, with her Herculean strength, had no trouble carrying Jamaal’s unconscious body all the way back to the cottage she and I were sharing.
Maggie is a good friend. She knew without asking that I’d want Jamaal laid out in my bedroom rather than his. She also spontaneously volunteered to go back to Jasmine’s house to see if she could be of use. We both knew it was an excuse for her to let Jamaal and me have some privacy when he came to. I’m not generally a hugger, but I hugged her before she left.
After removing the remains of his undershirt and tossing the bloody mess in the trash, I lay down beside Jamaal, who seemed to be resting comfortably enough. I put my hand on his chest and felt the steady beating of his heart, the gentle rise and fall of his breath. I was so grateful he was alive I couldn’t hold back tears, and I clung to him tightly.
I realized I’d been tap-dancing around my feelings for too long, calling them a crush or lust or just a flat-out bad idea. But the terror that had seized me today when I knew he’d been killed was like nothing I’d ever experienced before in my life. I did not have “a thing” for him. I was in love with him, pure and simple.
Jamaal’s body jerked, and he drew in a gasping breath. He was awake.
I knew exactly what he was going through, knew he was struggling against the memory of the breathless paralysis of death, the absolute nothingness of it. I clung to him even tighter, reminding him that I was here, that he didn’t have to face the terror alone.
This was not the first time Jamaal had died. I don’t know if that made it any easier for him or if he was just being stoic, but the tension eased out of him, and his quickened pulse slowed. With a groan of effort, he turned onto his side to face me, throwing an arm around me and snuggling me against his chest. He sighed contentedly, as if all was right with his world.
Dying takes a lot out of you, and I knew he would be asleep again in moments. He was probably at least halfway there already.
“I love you,” I whispered softly against his chest, not expecting him to hear.
These were not words I spoke lightly. Hell, the only ones who’d ever heard them before were Steph and our parents, and even then only rarely. For all my long list of failed relationships, I had never once given my heart to someone like I had with Jamaal. I figured it would take a while before I gathered up the courage to say them loud enough for him to hear.
Which was why I nearly passed out when I heard his whispered, “Love you, too.”
I raised my head to look into his face, my eyes wide and my pulse thudding in my throat. But he must have fallen asleep the instant the words left his mouth.
TWENTY-FOUR
I officially moved into Anderson’s wing of the mansion seven days after the battle in Bermuda, when he left to begin his time as Niobe’s prisoner . . . and stud. I was more than a little overwhelmed by the massive undertaking I had committed myself to, but I was determined to take things one day at a time.
Before Anderson left, we had a meeting with Cyrus. No more posturing or intimidation—this time we met at the mansion, just the three of us, and discussed how we could manage to build a peace between us that wasn’t based on threats.
It wasn’t as hard as I’d expected. Cyrus was probably never going to get over his fury with Anderson for killing his father, but he reluctantly agreed he’d had good cause. It helped that all of Konstantin’s closest allies—the ones who would have put the most pressure on Cyrus to get revenge—had died either in the battle or in the days following it, their immortality given to Descendants with more moderate views.
The Olympians would never be the good guys. Cyrus had no intention of using his o
wn or his people’s powers to make the world a better place. We would continue to have significant philosophical differences, and no doubt there would be times when we would clash. But during that meeting, we agreed that we’d stay out of each other’s way as much as possible and hopefully solve any conflicts by negotiation instead of violence.
“If you’re ever tempted to go back to the old ways,” Anderson warned Cyrus, “just remember that I won’t be Niobe’s prisoner forever. I will be back someday . . . and I’ll hold you personally responsible for any harm you or your Olympians do to my people.”
Cyrus then flashed me a wry smile. “I won’t miss having him trot out that old chestnut every five minutes.”
I almost smiled back but managed to catch myself. I wouldn’t miss having Anderson continually bullying his way into getting what he wanted, either, but that didn’t necessarily mean having that threat hanging over the Olympians was a bad thing. Maybe it would help keep them honest.
I wasn’t sure I trusted the agreement, and Anderson concurred that tempering any optimism with caution was a wise plan, but it was a hopeful beginning. Cyrus made a big deal out of handing Blake over as some kind of grand gesture to symbolize the start of our new peace, but I suspect even his own people knew that it wasn’t a true concession. What he wanted from Blake couldn’t be taken by force, and I think Blake’s brief stint as his prisoner had proven that to him.
Steph wasn’t speaking to me. I hoped that was only temporary, that she would eventually come to realize I’d done the best I could in an exceedingly difficult situation. I know Blake tried to contact her as soon as Cyrus let him go, but she made it clear I had company in the doghouse.
I expected that to be the last I saw of Cyrus for quite some time, which was a happy prospect. However, as I was in the process of moving into Anderson’s office, Cyrus called from the mansion’s front gate and requested a moment of my time.