Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 131364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
She’d thought she’d accepted that diagnosis and its impossible “cure,” but today, she realized she’d been numb to the possibility of any other life when she’d done so. Numb to the world in which she could live if she only had the chance.
Instead, she was locked in a state of permanent dull equilibrium, unable even to experience the wonder of this moment where she stood on the lip of a cliff watching a wing of falcons begin to practice maneuvers.
Inputting Bram’s code, she lifted the phone to her ear. “I’m alive,” she said in greeting. “Any results from the evidence Adam passed on?”
“No fingerprints or DNA,” came the expected answer. “How are you, Eleri?”
“Not good,” she admitted to this member of the Cartel who was the force that had brought them and kept them together.
Then, for the first time, she spoke the truth she’d hidden in her heart since she was seventeen and a beautiful boy had smiled at her. “I want more than this life, Bram.”
“Adam Garrett seems pretty determined to figure out a solution to your Sensitivity,” Bram said, but unspoken was that they’d been through the entire gamut of possibilities and come up blank. Because the Cartel wasn’t fatalistic by design—they’d fought for her, as she’d fought for them. Without success.
“Saffron, Yúzé?” she asked.
“Yúzé managed to talk her down from her manic state after I assured them both you were safe, and he’s focused on her for the time being, so stable enough.”
“You?”
A short pause. “Going in for a meds change today.”
Translation: he hadn’t slept last night, and possibly the night prior. “How long since your last switch-up?”
“Two months.”
At this rate, he’d run out of all possible drug interventions within the year. And then what? How would Bram sleep? “Have you spoken to an empath?” she asked, thinking of Sascha Duncan and the other Es who’d assisted Jacques.
“It’s a neurological issue, El,” Bram reminded her. “Not psychological or emotional. The part of my brain that regulates sleep no longer functions as it should.”
She knew that, but she couldn’t help grasping for hope through the wall of reconditioning. “Tell me what the medics say,” she said. “You…matter to me, Bram.” She’d never told him that, never verbalized it, and it seemed very important she do so now. “You’re my family, my brother.”
Bram’s answer was quiet. “He’s good for you, that falcon. Take the time, El.”
She would, she thought as she hung up the call. At least today. She could justify stepping away from the hunt for the killer while her brain was at flatline, so vulnerable that she couldn’t fight him off if he assaulted her. And there was no reason for him to escalate to another kidnapping so soon after his last one.
But first, she’d reply to Saffy—who loved messages far more than calls: I’m in a falcon aerie, watching a wing fly in front of me against a backdrop of reds and oranges and desert gold. I flamed out after a psychic event, but I’m healing. I’m also surrounded by changelings with natural shields—it’s the best place I could’ve found to heal.
The response came back at lightning speed: I would think you were delusional if Bram hadn’t told us you were with the falcons. Is it really like that?
Eleri took a photo, careful not to reveal anything that wouldn’t be visible to someone on the ground looking up. Falcons in the air, against the wild blue sky.
Saffron’s response was about ten exclamation marks followed by more curious questions, all of which Eleri answered, because she knew that Saffy just wanted to talk to her. If Bram was the glue that held them together, Saffron was the little sister who’d always brought light and color into their lives. It didn’t matter that, in biological terms, Eleri was younger than her by a year—Saffy had always been softer, sweeter, younger in the heart.
Left alone to bloom, Eleri had always thought their Saffy would have become an artist, a designer of clothes vibrant and eye-catching. At seven, she used to sketch pretty dresses and fancy hats. Until the teachers and trainers had crushed the color out of her, taught her to live in a world of shadow memories.
When they signed off today, it was with a promise to chat again the next day.
The sound of wings coming closer as she slipped away her phone, the tenor different from when the falcons had taken off. Faster, more rushed. She saw why when the flyer winged into view…it was the smallest falcon she’d ever seen, its feathers still slightly white and fluffy in patches.
A child.
Beating its wings with far more force and less finesse than its elders, it dove into the opening…to land on Eleri’s arm, which she’d outstretched without thinking about it. The child’s chest heaved as it settled its feathers, its tiny heartbeat rapid. Its talons gripped Eleri’s forearm tight but without breaking through her shirt.