The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 243

“Gemma!” Felicity’s voice.

Stay with me…

“Yes,” I say, my hand reaching toward the tree in longing, for it understands me. I press my palm to the bark, and suddenly, everything vanishes. It’s only the tree and me. I see Eugenia Spence before it, regal and sure. I look for my friends, but they’ve gone.

“Give yourself to me, Gemma, and you will never be alone again. You’ll be worshipped. Adored. Loved. But you must give yourself to me—a willing sacrifice.”

Tears slip down my face. “Yes,” I murmur.

“Gemma, don’t listen,” Circe says hoarsely, and for a moment, I don’t see Eugenia; I see only the tree, the blood pumping beneath its pale skin, the bodies of the dead hanging from it like chimes.

I gasp, and Eugenia is before me again. “Yes, this is what you want, Gemma. Try as you might, you cannot kill this part of yourself. The solitude of the self that waits just under the stairs of your soul. Always there, no matter how much you’ve tried to be rid of it. I understand. I do. Stay with me and never be lonely again.”

“Don’t listen…to that…bitch,” Circe croaks, and the vines tighten around her neck.

“No, you’re wrong,” I say to Eugenia as if coming out of a long sleep. “You couldn’t kill this part of yourself. And you couldn’t accept it, either.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she says, sounding uncertain for the first time.

“That’s why they were able to take you. They found your fear.”

“And what, pray, was it?”

“Your pride. You couldn’t believe you might have some of the same qualities as the creatures themselves.”

“I am not like them. I am their hope. I sustain them.”

“No. You tell yourself that. That’s why Circe told me to search my dark corners. So I wouldn’t be caught off guard.”

Circe laughs, a splintered cackle that finds a way under my skin.

“And what about you, Gemma?” Eugenia purrs. “Have you ‘searched’ yourself, as you say?”

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I’ve made mistakes,” I say, my voice growing stronger, my fingers feeling for the dagger again. “But I’ve done good, too.”

“And yet, you’re still alone. All that trying and still you stand apart, watching from the other side of the glass. Afraid to have what you truly want because what if it’s not enough after all? What if you get it and you still feel alone and apart? So much better to wrap yourself up in the longing. The yearning. The restlessness. Poor Gemma. She doesn’t quite fit, does she? Poor Gemma—all alone.”

It’s as if she’s delivered a blow to my heart. My hand falters. “I—I…”

“Gemma, you’re not alone,” Circe gasps, and my hand touches metal.

“No. I’m not. I’m like everyone else in this stupid, bloody, amazing world. I’m flawed. Impossibly so. But hopeful. I’m still me.” I’ve got it now. Sure and strong in my grip. “I see through you. I see the truth.”

I spring to my feet, and suddenly, the illusion Eugenia has crafted is broken. I see the battlefield awash in blood and fighting. Hear the clang of steel against steel, the cries of vengeance, of fear, of principle and power lust, of desperation, of pure valor and unmerciful righteousness—all of it blurring into one terrible roar that drowns out every voice, every heart, every hope.

“Well done, Gemma,” Eugenia says. “You’re very powerful, indeed. Pity you won’t live long enough to make more of those glorious mistakes.”

I raise the dagger. “Right. Let’s end this properly.”

The tree’s many arms stretch and groan. Its surface roils with those devoured souls. I try to see clearly, but this is no illusion. This is terrifyingly real, and I fall back as the tree rises taller, looming over me.

“Gemma, do it,” Circe moans in agony.

I summon every bit of magic I’ve got, channeling it into the dagger. “I free the souls trapped here! You are released!”

I close my eyes and try to plunge the dagger into the tree. One of the branches knocks it from my hand. With a gasp, I watch it drop below. The tree shrieks and howls, calling the attention of every person on the battlefield.

“Her blood must fall!” the tree commands.

“Gemma!” Kartik calls, and I hear the alarm in his voice.

Amar comes for me. He spurs his horse forward, picking up speed. I scramble loose of the tree’s grip and race for the dagger, just out of reach. For a moment, time slows. The roar of battle dims to a hum. There is only the sound of hoofbeats matching the pounding throb of my blood in my ears. I see Kartik running after his brother with a fierce determination in his eyes. And then the world spins into time.