Everlasting (Immortals 6)

I steal a moment to gather my reply, partly because he may not like what I say, and partly because I’m stil amazed that he’s looking to me for the answers. Taking a deep breath, venturing a quick look around, before I return to him and say, “You need to remember that the soul is eternal. That love never dies. And that your failure to realize that, your attachment to the physical world is what brought us both here—brought us both to this point.”

There, I said it. It’s his fault. Stil , my voice bears no blame. He’s not the first to make that mistake. As Lotus said, it’s the fol y of man.

Damen’s just one of the few to actual y succeed at his attempt to thwart physical death—or at least for a while anyway.

“Then later, when we get through this, and wind up … wel , wherever we’l wind up, we’l need to use that knowledge to find a way to reverse what we’ve done—the mistakes that we’ve made,” I add, the words coming so quickly and easily it’s as though they emanate from some other place, but I know deep down inside, know in my gut, that they’re true. “That’s my journey.” I nod, suddenly knowing it for sure. “That’s the truth I’m supposed to reveal. How?” I peer at him, attempting to answer the question that marks his brow. “I’m not sure, but there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s what I’m destined to do.”

Damen looks at me, features hardened, conflicted, though sticking to his vow to fol ow my lead.

And though I search for a better argument, a better way to persuade him that’l erase any

lingering doubts, there’s no time to dwel . No time to assure him of what I know deep down inside to be true.

Not with the current growing swifter.

Not with the sky darkening in a way that instantly erases the horizon.

The line between heaven and earth, water and air, up and down, suddenly blurred. Catching us in a swirling, whirling surge of rogue waves, each one bigger than the one that came before, causing the river to expand and surge, to ripple and roar, until al we can do is hang on to each other, to keep from going overboard, capsizing into the water.

The sky cracking open with a rumble of thunder so loud, we seek shelter in the only place left to us—each other. The two of us trembling under a cloudburst of rain—an unrelenting monsoon—as great bolts of lightning strike down al around.

“Concentrate!” I cry, eyes squeezed shut against the downpour, my lips at his ear. “This is part of the test, hang on to the past, refuse to forget, no matter how scary it gets!”

Not quite sure where that came from, but again, sensing it to be true. Knowing firsthand the mighty power of fear, having been ruled by it before.

It’s the opposite of faith.

The opposite of trusting in the universe.

The opposite of believing in one’s higher self.

Fear leaves you sweaty and shaky and insecure enough to question everything you know to be true.

Fear makes you turn your back on what matters most.

Resulting in rash decisions, false moves, and later, the unrelenting burden of regret. And if Damen and I are to get through this, move forward on our path, we’l have to beat this river and overcome this storm by doing whatever it takes to block it al out.

The waters continue to churn and dip as the boat creaks and tilts in a terrifying way. Damen and I huddle together, clinging to our memories, clinging to each other, as a bolt of lightning burns up the bow, cracks it in half, and al ows a torrent of water to gush in.

Causing the bottom to fal out from the weight of it, as the river rises to swal ow us whole.

The two of us reaching, grasping, fighting for our lives, fighting to hang on to each other—but it’s no use.

Our skin is too wet, too slippery, too slick to grab hold of.

And though I try to keep my eye on Damen, try to determine the direction from which he cal s out my name, it’s too dark, too confusing, I’ve no sense of time or place, no sense of up or down—and the next thing I know, I’m sinking.

It’s over.

Too late.

The river has claimed me.

twenty-three

I’m gagging.

Gagging on mud, and muck, and total y icky bottom-of-the-river sludge. Something hard and metal ic clanging against my upper molars and floating on my tongue—something I’m determined to rid myself of.