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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

She slides from my shoulder like a limp rag, refusing to be held upright. Needles of hot water seep through my clothes as I brace her against the shower wall and she slumps to the floor. Her skin’s rippled with goose bumps, and a pink flush creeps over her neck.

I squat beside her, tapping her cheek. “Fleur, wake up.” Her heavy lids pry open, her dark eyes slow to focus on me.

I wait for her to push me away. To lash out.

“I’m hungry,” she rasps.

I get to my feet and stand out of the spray. “I’ve already ordered food.”

Fleur watches me, hands braced on the shower basin beside her, as I back out of the shower. When I’m sure she’s not going to drown, I grab a towel from a stack on the counter, mopping my face as I leave her alone in the bathroom. I shut the bedroom doors behind me, trailing water over the carpet as I head to the living room. There’s a meal cart in the middle of the room and a pile of extra blankets and fresh clothes stacked on the arm of the couch.

As I peel off my jacket, something falls to the carpet—a broken twig with four pathetic buds that must have gotten stuck inside my clothes.

I rub my chest, twirling the torn stem, thinking back to the things Fleur said about feeling pain.

My thoughts reach out toward the plant, bouncing off its membrane when I push too hard too fast. I try again, a careful, curious brush of my thoughts this time, and I’m rewarded with a sharp sting. I breathe through it, sliding deeper inside the plant’s skin, conforming to its shape. I imagine my lungs expanding. Imagine my fists uncurling. The buds shiver, then slowly open, their leaves unfurling right in front of me.

The bedroom doors snap open. Fleur stands in the gap between them, her hair wrapped in a towel, clutching the collar of a long bathrobe tightly closed. Her eyes dip to the plant, then lift to my face. A flash of fear passes over them.

I jerk my head toward the cart, tossing the branch in the waste bin. She rushes to turn over the silver domes, her hands moving furtively around the edges of the tray as if she’s looking for something. “What did the kitchen send for dinner?” she asks, lifting a plate and brushing her fingers under it.

“If you’re referring to Boreas, he’s dead.” The plate clanks quietly against the tray as it slides from her hand. “You asked me whose blood I was wearing. Now you know.”

She moves away from the cart. Face paling, she takes the pile of Gaia’s clothes in her arms and holds it to her chest. Then she disappears into my bedroom and locks the doors.

34

Heaps of Broken Glass

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JACK