Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) Carissa Broadbent (best book recommendations txt) 📖

like the bones of a carcass. The face became Serel’s. Max’s. My mother’s. Vos’s and his scarred, disfigured features.

I opened my mouth but could not speak. I felt as if everything was being drained from me. Like my life, my energy was being pulled away from inside.

I fought, trying to bury Il’Sahaj into its flesh, but my awareness was fading. Somewhere in the misty world beyond, Max was attacking it, too, trying desperately to yank it off of me. Its blood — if it was blood — rained down on me, burning and burning and burning.

Suddenly everything went blindingly bright.

The creature released me.

And there was Max, carved from fire itself, his second eyelids wide open to reveal his black, piercing eyes.

The creature was distracted, now, far more interested in this new opponent. But even as it moved away, in its final touch, I felt as if we were connected in some strange way. And for the first time, I felt something from it:

Pleasure.

“No,” I choked out.

I didn’t know how, but I understood that Max had made a terrible mistake. The world snapped back into focus, and the creature lunged for him. At first, Max slipped into nothingness, lurching to the other side of the room, like a brighter, clumsier, more powerful version of the Syrizen. He reappeared behind the creature. One strike, and fire burst through the room.

The creature flew against the wall. For a few seconds, I thought that could be it. I pushed myself to my feet. My legs were shaking. I grabbed Il’Sahaj.

The edges of the creature shivered, like shadow pierced by unyielding daylight.

But then it drew itself back together, and it surged toward Max.

The two of them collided in a vicious tangle of light and shadow. But it was clear, almost immediately, that the shadow was winning. Through the flames, I saw Max’s face go blank with agony. The creature was surrounding him, all of those spindly wrong-way limbs circling around him. And then there were more — four arms, six arms, ten arms, circling him, smothering light.

On instinct, I tried to call my magic, but it did not answer. The creature looked up at me, and now its face was one that I knew so intimately even though I had never met it — a young girl with sheets of black hair. Kira.

It would kill him. The certainty of it hit me like a rock to my chest.

I had to stop myself from rushing to him.

I had no magic.

Il’Sahaj would do nothing against this thing.

And I had no time.

So instead, I turned and ran.

I only just saw the creature’s face snap up as I tore out the door, around the corner, down the hall. I didn’t look back. I ran until I reached the guest room — the room that had been mine, the last time I lived here — ran around the corner and inside, then threw myself behind the cupboard.

And then I waited, hand pressed to my mouth to still my serrated breath.

I heard no footsteps. But I didn’t hear a fight, either. Had it abandoned Max to come search for me?

Slowly, so slowly, my fingers slid down into the partially-open drawer around the corner. Then closed them around a round glass bottle, about the size of my palm.

Please, please, please…

I slid out from behind the wardrobe. This room was neater than Max’s bedroom, and far less cluttered. For the first time I cursed myself for having cleaned it out when I lived here before. With silent steps, I went to the center of the room. In the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall, I could see the red shadows of the lanterns against the walls, the furniture, and my own blood-streaked face.

I turned around, circling the room. Nothing.

And then I turned back to the mirror.

The room was once again reflected back at me, doused in lantern light — everything doused, except for my face, stuck in shadow.

Gods, please work, please work…

I said one final prayer, and then I smashed the bottle in my hand against the ground. I poured absolutely everything I had, every scrap of magic that might have still lived within me, every piece of desperation, every magnified shard of power that lived trapped within this ink — I poured all of it, all of it, all of it, into drawing the final line of my Stratagram.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my reflection lunge towards the glass.

Pain tore through me as I gave magic I didn’t have to this final burst, drawing what I could from the Stratagram ink for one single spell.

One spell, to shatter all of the glass in the house, mirrors and windows, all at once.

The crash tore the air in two.

Sweat plastered my clothing to my skin. My head was spinning. I struggled to my hands and knees and crawled to the mirror. Broken glass bit into my palms — from the mirror and the glass, mixed together in tiny shards on the floor.

Two bony, rotting hands remained, braced on either side of the mirror frame, as if about to vault themselves out of it…now attached to nothing.

“Fucking brilliant.”

I turned to see Max leaning against the doorframe. His second eyelids were closed now, gaze cool and blue and so very tired. He was not wounded, but he looked impossibly weak. My gaze fell to his hands. They were black.

I got to my feet. “We have to leave. I do not know if it’s dead or—”

My words were drowned out by a strange sound. It started low, and then rose louder and louder:

Shshshshshshsh...

Max and I looked to the now-glassless window just in time for birds to pour through it.

Max muttered a curse, but it was drowned out beneath the sound of their wings, a deafening whisper that swelled like a rising tide. We both braced, but the birds simply surrounded us and then moved past, rushing through the bedroom, down the hall, and presumably, disappearing out another window.

The sound slowly faded.

When I