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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

“You’re wondering if I’m telling the truth,” he says smugly. “You’re asking yourself, if I really did kill Daniel Lyon, then why aren’t I holding his staff?”

“Was it too heavy for your conscience to carry?” I glare up at him through the bars. “Or are you too afraid to bring it within arm’s reach of me after what I did to Michael?”

With shocking speed, Doug reaches into my cell and pulls me by my collar. His hands are rough, the skin cracked and scratchy where it touches my throat. I grab the bars to steady myself as he hauls me up on my toes, forcing me to meet his eye. I swallow hard against the frost and violence glittering inside it.

His whisper is cold against my cheek. “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t bring the scythe.”

He releases me with a shove, but I catch the wince he tries to hide, the barely perceptible shudder as he turns away from me. The smell of iron grows thicker in the air, and he touches his nose, avoiding the gazes of his Guards. “Bring her to the Control Room,” he orders them over his shoulder.

An enormous Guard gestures to Chill’s cell. “What about the other one, sir?”

Doug’s voice is thick when he says, “Let him rot.”

17

Coil and Hissed

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DOUG

The click of my heels on the worn stone treads echoes through the spiral stairwell. The leather dress shoes are stiff, tight in the toe and loose around the ankles, rubbing blisters into my heels, and the orb containing Gaia’s magic is awkward under my arm. I wrench a finger under my tie and unfasten the top button of my shirt, drawing a deep breath of damp, stale air that does nothing to relieve the pressure in my chest.

Mossy condensation glistens on the walls, catching the torchlight. It reeks down here, and I’ll be glad when we finally have the power restored to all the wings, the halls cleared of debris, and the damn elevators running.

The stairwell breaks at a stone landing, and I throw open the door. The corridor to the Control Room is pitch dark, except for a dull red glow from an emergency exit sign above me and the shine of the hissing magic in the orb. A sconce has fallen loose, dangling by its wires, and a pile of rubble has formed a dam, blocking the flow of the fountain where it spills onto the floor. I step over the dark puddles, angrier with every step I take. Every broken bulb and flooded pipe is just a reminder of my inability to control this and fix it.