BooksBarbecue
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

Loss, he calls it. As if it’s all a game. As if he plucked a few damn chess pieces off the board and we can all just start over. I shake my head as I shove through the heavy double doors, nearly crashing into the figure cowering on the other side. Kai wraps her arms around herself, pale and shaking like she’s just awoken from stasis. Kai Sampson, the best marksman in the Guard. The champion archer who shot Jack Sommers full of arrows, and for what?

For nothing.

“Doug?” Her voice cracks. She reeks like cold sweat as I shoulder past her. “Doug, what happened? What did he want?”

She has no idea. No idea Jack’s alive. No idea what’s happened while we’ve all been sleeping. I don’t tell her what Lyon said. That we’ve lost the battle. That our enemies have taken control of our home. I don’t tell her we’re about to lose our lives, or our magic. Because I have no intention of letting the bastard get that far.

1

A Strangely Aching Heart

image

FLEUR

A guitar riff screams against the walls of the villa, drowning out the morning chatter of the jays as I follow the sound through the veranda. By the time I reach the workout room, Jack’s favorite ’80s punk mix is reverberating in my bones. I push open the door, covering my ears against the hammering of drums.

“Jack!” I can’t even hear myself over the bass. Neither can he, apparently. “Jack, you really shouldn’t—”

His back rests on the weight bench, his legs spread, his bare feet pressed flat against the floor as he shakes chalk from his hands and adjusts his grip on the bar. It’s loaded down with far too many plates. I open my mouth to shout again. Oblivious, he sucks in a few short breaths, gritting his teeth as he pushes the bar from its cradle. Jack’s muscles tighten into distracting patterns, cords straining in the flushed column of his neck as he lowers the bar and presses it up again.

Eyes squeezed shut, he pushes out a few more reps. I hover close, my hands poised to catch the bar if it drops. His jaw strains, his breath heating my face as I help guide the bar the last few inches into the cradle.

His gray eyes flash open as the bar clatters into place with an echoing thud. A smile tugs on his lips. He lies there, covered in sweat, grinning at me upside down, lip-synching the words to whatever song is blaring through the speakers. I reach for his phone and shut the music off.

“I said, you shouldn’t be lifting this much weight without a spotter!” My voice is too loud, the music still ringing in my ears.