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Back Seasons of Chaos Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. Dedication
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. Epilogue
  66. Acknowledgments
  67. About the Author
  68. Books by Elle Cosimano
  69. Back Ad
  70. About the Publisher

“No,” I whisper, frantically pushing buttons. “No!” I race through every channel, but the only ones that work are the weather feeds and the news.

I sink into the couch, the bright blooming splashes of color on the radar images still bursting inside my closed eyelids. I take a slow, deep breath. Doug won’t kill him. Not yet. Doug’s plans are bigger than that; he told me that much. He’s just using Chill to get to me. The same way he’ll use them all to get to me. Every person I love in this world is on their way here, stumbling into his trap to save us.

There has to be some other way to send a message. Or a way out of this room.

I pitch the useless remote against the wall. The radar maps on the screen are awash in storms. Tidal surges, power outages, fires. My eyes well with tears as I read the news tickers. There are already hundreds of victims. Within weeks, there will be thousands, millions, maybe even billions more.

Soon, what Doug has planned for Jack and our friends won’t matter. If I can’t find a way to stop him and fix what he’s done, we’re all going to die—every last one of us.

26

Snow for Cold

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DOUG

The Guards in the hall part for me. Their fear is palpable as I stride past them. I gesture for Jora and March to follow me to my office. They stand guard outside as I deposit the plant and retrieve my staff. My burns are still raw, and I slip on a pair of gloves before grasping it. Even through the leather, the staff sends cold flickers of agony through my joints, and I double over at the sudden fire in my chest.

You can’t fix something if you can’t acknowledge that it’s broken. Before you can heal pain, you have to be willing to feel it. . . .

With a barely contained scream, I slash my arm across the desk, narrowly missing the potted plant as I send pens, folders, and a stapler flying.

I’m not broken. There’s nothing wrong with me or the magic. I just need time. Time to master it.

Braced against the desk, I focus on my breathing. The pain is nearly intolerable. But pain is an inextricable part of my life now. Power can only come from pain—from conquering it. I can master this magic—all of it.

Jaw clenched against the throbbing ache, I storm from the office with my scythe. My Guards fall in behind me. The pointed heel of the staff taps the floor as I lead the way to the Crux, the blade reflecting their wary expressions as the elevator doors slide closed around us.