“Let it go, Andi.” She forced her fists to open, shoved aside her frustration and anger, and smiled, grimly determined not to allow the dark future to steal this day from her. “Today, you’re Andi, and today, you’ll be happy.”
Picking up the basket of food she’d prepared, a picnic blanket already over her arm, she exited into the back courtyard and rose into the sky.
Her lungs expanded, clean air rushing into her body.
47
Not long afterward, she sat under the dusky, midday sun on a picnic blanket she’d spread under the distinctive umbrella-shaped canopy of a tree that had as many names as Africa had languages. Aqba, nyoswa, samor, umbrella thorn acacia . . . the name or the dialect didn’t matter. What mattered was that these trees provided welcome shade on the rolling grasslands of the savanna.
From her position, she could see the herons fly over the old watering hole, their wings flashes of white. Now that the reeds around the water were no longer regularly trampled under the ponderous feet of elephants, they grew lush and green when, elsewhere, the savanna was the golden green color of a season when the rains had come.
Much as Andromeda liked the herons and the lush foliage around the watering hole, she missed the elephants. There was something so very wise and steady about the magnificent creatures. And the way they cared for their young? As a babe herself, she’d been so envious of those awkward elephant babies who’d splashed in the water, certain their parents would protect them from the lions who liked to prowl around here.
But the elephants had moved on for reasons of their own, and though Andromeda knew their new favorite place, she didn’t go there. She didn’t want to inadvertently betray them to her parents’ guests. She’d done that once, accidentally shown a group of guests where the black rhino walked.
The three monsters had butchered two of the majestic creatures in front of her as she screamed and begged and tried to stop them. They’d done it for fun.
For fun.
That horrific day marked the only time she had ever been proud of her parents. Livid at discovering the slaughter, Lailah and Cato had meted out near-lethal punishments on the spot. Andromeda’s parents might torture and mutilate mortals and immortals without compunction, but they did not allow the abuse or senseless killing of animals.
Andromeda had asked once, why protect one and not the other? Her mother’s answer had been simple: Animals have no choice in whether or not to play the game.
Do all your playmates? Andromeda had dared ask.
Enough to not be innocent as an animal is innocent.
As a result of their stance, Lailah and Cato’s territory teemed with wildlife, was considered one of the most rich and diverse places on the continent when it came to fauna.
Yet despite the fact the aftermath of the rhino slaughter was well known to all who came here, Andromeda didn’t take risks when it came to the animals. The herons could fly away if anyone came here, and they weren’t usually targets in any case.
Where was Naasir?
She stood and walked up the slight rise behind the tree for the tenth time. It gave her an uninterrupted view of the savanna in every direction, but she saw no familiar feline stride, no glint of glittering silver.
Refusing to give up, she returned to the picnic blanket and checked the food she’d prepared by hand and with all of the love in her heart. She’d packed the meat in ice to protect it from the heat, then placed it in an insulated container, but it wouldn’t last more than two hours, given the warm temperature. She loved that warmth against her skin, loved the dusty scents in the air, loved hearing the far-off roar of a lion, had missed it all desperately when she was in the Refuge.
An hour later and the herons had flown away, leaving her with only the grasses for company. Even the light wind had fallen, the entire world in stasis. When she walked up the rise again, all was emptiness. “Naasir!” she yelled out to the mocking landscape. “If you don’t get here soon, I’ll eat all the meat!”
“Liar.”
Heart slamming into her rib cage, she swiveled so fast on her heel that she almost unbalanced. And there he was, his breath harsh and his skin hot, his hair tumbled from the run. She jumped into his arms, those arms wide open for her. Grabbing her under her wings, as if they’d done this a million times before and he knew exactly how to hold her, he lifted her off her feet and spun her around.
Laughing and crying, she locked her arms around him. “You’re late,” she accused when he stopped the spin. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
Cuddling her close, he rubbed his cheek against hers. “I’m hungry.”
She pretended to punch his shoulder, but when he put her on her feet, tugged him to the picnic blanket . . . and there, in the middle of the tartan was a book that wasn’t supposed to exist. Lips parting on a gasp, she fell on her knees. She reached for the book, snatched back her hand before her fingers could graze the gold-etched red leather.
The gold outlined the image of a fierce winged creature with fiery breath.
“You can touch it,” Naasir said, sprawling on his side on the blanket. “I asked Jessamy what to do to thaw it safely.”
“Thaw it?”
Naasir didn’t answer. He’d flipped open the insulated container and found the seasoned meat. Grinning, he popped a cube into his mouth . . . and his chest rumbled in pleasure, eyes heavy lidded. “Who made this?”
She bit down on her lower lip. “Do you like it?”
“Yes. I hope you bought a lot.” He ate several more cubes.
Forgetting the Grimoire for a second, she beamed. “I made it. I used special spices you can only order from a shop in Marrakech—I had the package flown down so it’d arrive in time.”
His eyes lit up, but his next words were a growl. “Open the book so you can be sure it’s your stupid Grimoire.”
Laughing at the way he always referred to the Star Grimoire, she picked it up with utmost care. The leather was in near-flawless condition, only a little creased on the spine. “How can this be so old and so perfect?”
“It was hidden away,” Naasir said. “Maybe Osiris found it in the ice when he built the house that became his stronghold.” A shrug. “Later, it returned to the ice.”
“Will you tell me about your becoming?” Under a warm African sun where no darkness could linger.
He growled and, reaching over, grabbed the Grimoire. Undoing the lock with a rough quickness that made her squeak, he thrust it at her. “Is this it?”
Realizing he wasn’t going to tell her anything until she’d confirmed whether or not this was in fact the Grimoire, she took it from him and, sitting cross-legged on the picnic blanket, opened it with care. The text flowed like water across the page, interrupted only by two squares of delicately detailed illustrations.
Gold and silver and green and red, the colors were brilliant, as if the lines had been drawn yesterday. The black ink of the writing was as dark. Turning the page, she found a full-page drawing of a griffin. The mythical creature’s wings were gloriously arched, its body that of a lion and its eyes a hypnotic obsidian. Running her fingers carefully over the image, she felt her throat thicken.
“This is a jewel,” she whispered to Naasir. “One of the Seven Lost Angelic Treasures.” She rubbed away the tears rolling down her cheeks before the salt water could fall and damage the page.
Shifting to sit behind her so he could look over her shoulder, Naasir wrapped one strong arm around her waist. “Can you read the writing?”