A Matter of Forever (Fate, #4)

We’re grappling at each other, chunks of his slimy, putrefying skin sliding off with each attempt to gain a firm grip. We hit the ground; it’s softening in the heat of my madness. He’s laughing, just demonical about all of this, which only intensifies my wrath.

I punch my fist right into Jens’ chest, and then I spread my fingers out wide. He howls beneath me, digs the bones of his fingers deep into my skin, but I’m resolute. Howls transition to panic; he’s flailing, screaming at me about mistakes and deals but the thing is I. Don’t. CARE.

I can taste his fear when I yank every last bit of his essence out and into me.

Nine and ten.

It’s just number eleven I can’t deal with.





Power pulses underneath my skin. Oh so much power that I feel like, if I wanted to, I could unravel the universe with a single sigh.

Jens’ still body lies beneath mine. My fingers curve around the still muscle in his chest. “You. Are. No. More.”

It disappears. Every last bit of skin and muscle on the floor, on my hand, disappears along with it. The only thing remaining is his power.

Oh gods. So much power. Everything around me is heightened. Every atom bounces and rings, every electron, each molecule’s path is mine to trace. But none of this matters, not when Kellan is lying so still just a few inches away. His head is angled toward me, resting at an awkward angle. All I see are the whites of his eyes. His mouth is open in surprise, his hands bloody from fighting and hanging onto that damn pipe.

Sobs heave up and out of me.

I drag his body toward mine, cradling his head in my lap. His name is my prayer, my confessions for far too many sins in my life. He’s gone.

He’s gone.

I’ve lost them both.

I kiss his face, over and over, crying until my tears look like his. I’ve lost him. I’ve failed him. I failed both him and his brother so spectacularly.

I don’t want to exist any longer if they can’t, too.

“Chloe?”

A small hand touches my shoulder; I jump, but refuse to let go of Kellan. It’s a terrified Cicely.

Oh, gods. In my rage, I must have destroyed so much of the house that she was freed from her panic room. A room only my craft could open.

I close my eyes and rest my cheek against the soft black hair beneath me so I do not scare her any further. I force myself to breathe, but all I can smell is Kellan’s shampoo.

“Is he okay?”

I shake my head, a sob catching in my throat. She needs to get out of here before I lose it entirely. Before she’s at risk, too. I need to get her home, but ... as I have been for so many times in the past, I am entirely too selfish when it comes to Kellan. I won’t let him go. I can’t.

“Are the bad men gone?”

I nod.

“There are some people outside,” she tells me. “Your friends. I think they’re hurt or sleeping. I was watching them on the monitor—one of those shadow monsters found them. I was too scared to go out and see them.”

No. Not Raul and Lola, too.

Her small hand touches Kellan’s face oh so close to mine. “Can I help your friend?”

I shake my head again.

“Can you?”

“I’m not a Shaman.” My whispers are waterlogged.

She’s quiet for so long, I finally open my eyes. She’s sitting crisscross applesauce next to Kellan and me, staring at me like I’m speaking gibberish. “But ... you’re a Creator.”

I want to laugh, but it comes out mangled.

“You destroyed those bad things.” She’s so fierce when she says this. “If you can erase something, why can’t you replace it, too?”

Huh?

“Mama says you can do almost anything. Can you help your friend?”

He’s dead, I want to tell her. His beautiful, generous heart doesn’t work anymore all because I was too scared to take a chance.



The earliest memory I have is of when I’m three. I’m in my mother’s greenhouse, and she’s busy doing something ... potting, maybe? I’m not too far away, but I’ve figured out that if I stack some pots together, I can form a ladder. There’s a flower up on the top shelf that I really want to see, maybe smell. The memory isn’t fully complete; I don’t know if any memory at three can be. Anyway, it’s pink and pretty and far too alluring, and I climb up on the rickety wooden shelves, and then, when I’m up there, I feel like I’m on top of the world.

I’m invincible.

I wonder what it’d be like to fly.

I don’t recall exactly why I decided this was the perfect moment to attempt flying. But I do remember spreading my arms out wide, like they were wings. I am a Creator, after all. Maybe if I wish it enough, my arms will transform into feathery white wings, just like an angel’s.

I remember the exhilaration of anticipation. And then, once I jump and my arms remain flesh and bone and simply arms, not wings, there’s a terrible transition into fear.