BooksBarbecue
Back World After Save as PDF
Chapters (81)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication Page
  4. CONTENTS
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  81. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

He closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing his sadness. I’m so used to seeing Raffe with his game face on that it’s hard to see him like this.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then he opens his eyes. He’s about to turn away from the window when he sees something on his white shirt.

He plucks it and holds it up. It’s a strand of hair. He runs his fingers along it. It’s dark and long and looks like mine.

His lips twitch as if it’s funny to think about how my hair might have ended up on his shirt. My guess is that it must have happened when I kissed him in the hallway downstairs by the club. He thinks it’s amusing.

If I had a body in this dream, my cheeks would be burning. It’s embarrassing just to think about it.

He walks over to the marble bar lined with bottles of wine. He looks beneath it and comes up with a small hotel sewing package. Why anyone who can afford a room like this would want a set of emergency thread and buttons, I don’t know, but there it is. He rips open the package and pulls out the thread. It’s the same snowy white as his wings.

He holds the thread and hair together and twirls them with his thumb and forefinger so that the two strands intertwine.

Holding the ends together, he steps over to the sword that lies on the counter and wraps the strand around the sword’s grip.

“Stop complaining,” he says to the sword. “It’s for luck.”

Luck. Luck. Luck.

The word echoes in my head.

I PUT my hand on the splintery dock to steady myself. The world comes back into focus as I take deep breaths.

Did Raffe really keep a strand of my hair?

Hard to believe.

I look carefully at the sword’s hilt. Amazingly, there it is, on the grip at the base of the cross-guard. Snow-white thread mixed with midnight dark.

I run my finger over the hair-thread and close my eyes. I think about Raffe doing the same thing as I feel the alternating texture of thread and hair against my fingertip.

Was the sword wishing me luck?

I know that it misses Raffe. If I don’t come back, I guess it has no chance of ever seeing him again. Even if it bonds with someone else, that person will have no connection with him and no knowledge of what it is. So maybe it does have a reason to wish me luck, along with a little reminder of Raffe.

I hate to leave the sword but I have no choice. I cover it, bear and all, with broken shingles and splintered boards.