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Chapter Twenty-One

On the day of Stephen Herondale's funeral, the sun seemed to dwindle in the sky, washing the necropolis in orange light. Long shadows stretched across the freshly fallen snow and the air was still, the kind of silence that hovers over sacred ground.

When she was younger, Jocelyn had been dragged to her fair share of Nephilim burial ceremonies. Every time, she had looked anywhere but at the body burning in front of her. She would study her shoes, squint up at the sky.

This time, she forced herself to stare directly at the funeral pyre. Her eyes followed the flames as they licked higher, obscuring the shape of Stephen's body from view.

She was flanked on either side by Michael and Amatis, both of them so close that their shoulders brushed hers. Valentine hadn't wanted to come. He claimed he had better things to do than stand around and weep for a man who had doubted their heavenly mission. When Jocelyn had pressed him, he'd become strangely angry, so she'd backed off. It was bizarre being out in public without him, away from his scrutinizing gaze. She was thankful that most people seemed to be more concerned with mourning than staring at her.

The only sound that cut through the frigid air was a thin, ragged sobbing. Stephen's mother, Imogen, had her face buried in her hands, and Adele stood by her side. The Herondales were old family friends. Stephen had always seemed to loathe his parents and had been railing against them for as long as Jocelyn could remember: they were so strict, so controlling, they wanted to have a hand in every decision he made. When Amatis and Stephen were dating, Jocelyn had spent many hours chatting with him about their upbringings. They used to sit on the roof overlooking the practice yard and swap stories. There was so much she hadn't understood about being a mother back then. About how far you could go for love. How much you could lose.

Michael leaned close to Jocelyn.

"They're burying Marcus tomorrow," he said in a low voice. "Did you hear?"

Jocelyn swallowed against a sharp pain in her throat. "Yes. Valentine told me."

Marcus Herondale, Stephen's father, had apparently died of shock upon learning of his son's death. It wasn't uncommon for Shadowhunters to meet this fate; Jocelyn remembered talking about it with Eleanor, her Academy tutor, many years ago. The hearts of the Nephilim are like the hearts of angels, she had said. They feel every pain and never heal.

"Poor Imogen," Michael muttered. His face was emotionless and cold as stone. Jocelyn was close enough to see the dancing flames reflected in his dark eyes. He had been there when Stephen was killed… had bore witness to so many of Valentine's horrible deeds. It was as though he had been hollowed out by what he'd seen.

As the sky dimmed, the crowd began to thin out, footsteps crunching across the frozen ground. Jocelyn turned to look at Amatis, who hadn't said a word since they'd arrived. She looked like the illustrations of Snow White in Jocelyn's old book of fairytales: face drained of all color, lips red and chapped from the cold, eyes blue as the frozen Lake Lyn. Her gaze was fixed on the funeral pyre and her arms were folded tightly across her chest as though that was all it would take to block everything out. Absently, she chewed on her lower lip. She looked painfully young. It had taken courage to come here, to stand among the friends who had betrayed her, to face Stephen's mother who had never cared for her.

"Amatis?" Jocelyn said softly. "Do you want to leave?"

She turned her head just slightly, looking as though she'd only just realized she was not alone. "No, thank you, Jocelyn. I'll stay."

Jocelyn hesitated, not wanting to leave, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and looked up at the solemn face of her mother. Before she could say anything, Adele pulled her into a tight hug.

"Sweetheart," she said, pulling back to cup Jocelyn's face in her hands. "It's so lovely to see you."

"I've missed you, Mom."

Adele's eyes were full of concern. "Where is Valentine?"

"He couldn't come."

"But is everything all right between the two of you?"

"Of course. Why would you ask that?"

"I just thought that recent events could have put a strain on your relationship."

"Shadowhunters die all the time, Mom."

"I know this, Jocelyn." She drew a breath, collecting herself. "But I also know you were close with Stephen and his wife. I thought this loss would be hard on you."

"It is."

Adele studied Jocelyn's face for a moment.

"Do you know what they say in town about your husband? They say he destroyed you. You, my beautiful daughter." Her voice broke. "Everywhere I go, they look at me and whisper what a shame it is that my daughter married a zealot who turned her into a vigilante."

Jocelyn could not muster any argument against this.

"He led Stephen to his death," Adele continued in a hushed voice. "Everyone knows it. The Clave can play innocent, but it seems that every time they refuse to act, another precious young life is lost. What of your friends, Jocelyn? Are they nothing to you anymore? What about Lucian?"

She froze, surprised. "You… you remember Lucian?"

Her mother reached out to place a protective hand on her daughter's arm. "Of course I remember him, my darling. You were so happy with him. I suppose I didn't realize it until I saw you with Valentine."

Jocelyn closed her eyes. "I did love Valentine once."

"I believe you. You always looked at him with love, but there was something missing. The way you looked at Lucian was so different. I was so sorry to hear of his fate, sweetheart. That must have caused you so much pain." Adele paused, taking a deep breath. "I was hard on you when you were young - I realize it now. I simply wanted the best for you. But I never wanted to see your heart broken."

The two women regarded each other carefully. It was strange: Jocelyn had spent so much of her youth fretting that her mother didn't understand her. That had been nothing. She felt as though a great invisible wall had been constructed between the two of them — a barrier of experience her mother could never begin to comprehend.

"Will you leave him? You know that your father and I would help you. If you're having doubts…"

Jocelyn licked her chapped lips. How easy, how freeing it would be to let the truth spill out.

"I'll be fine, Mom. You have to have faith in my choices. You and Dad both. I'm not a child."

Adele smiled sadly. "Jocelyn, you must know by now that parents never stop seeing their children as children."

"Sweetheart?" Granville appeared behind Adele's shoulder, a sleeping Jonathan cradled in his arms. "Would you like to take the carriage back with us? We'll make you some dinner."

"No, Daddy, I think I'll stay here with Amatis." She bent to kiss the top of the toddler's head, but did not take him into her arms. "Would you mind taking Jonathan with you? I'll stop by later tonight to pick him up."

"Of course." Granville shifted the boy in his arms to lovingly smooth Jocelyn's hair back from her face. "I love you, angel."

"I love you too, Daddy."

"We'll see you later," Adele said, pulling Jocelyn into a tight hug. It was over far too quickly; she watched the retreating backs of her parents, feeling some kind of strange stomach churning akin to homesickness. She had so many places to go, so many houses in which to sleep, and yet nowhere to call home.

In the dim evening light, Amatis was visible only as a darkened silhouette. Jocelyn walked back to her, looping an arm around her waist. The other girl leaned her head against her shoulder without saying a word. Together, they watched the flickering fire gasp for air before fading completely, leaving only ash and bone.

The month after Stephen's funeral passed in a blur. Circle meetings occurred with increasing frequency, and at each one, the fire seemed to burn behind Valentine's eyes with more intensity. It had become a struggle for Jocelyn to even look at him, but she would not give up the façade. She allowed him to kiss her, hold her, talk to her endlessly about the Accords plan. Her regular meetings with Lucian were the only thing that kept her sane.

On the night before the Accords were to be signed, Valentine was restless. He paced the length of their bedroom muttering to himself in a voice frayed with anxiety.

"Just come to bed," Jocelyn said as she smoothed down the sheets, imbuing her voice with as much affection as she could muster. "We've all been over the plan hundreds of times! It will work, Valentine. There's no need to torture yourself like this."

He whirled around, running a hand through his uncharacteristically messy hair. His features were illuminated by a single witchlight stone that rested on the nightstand; it was a new moon, and the sky outside the wide windows was pure black flecked with silver stars.

"Do you think they suspect something?"

"Who?"

"The Clave." Valentine rubbed his forehead as though he were getting a migraine. "I worry they have so grown to distrust us that they will anticipate an attack."

"Valentine, you've hidden your plans excruciatingly well," Jocelyn said, climbing into bed. "They would have to be driven by paranoia to expect an attack."

"We might fail." His face was drained of all color. Jocelyn watched curiously as he licked his lips, attempting to hide the quiver in his voice. In another life, she might have felt sorry for him.

"Come here."

He crossed the room to sit at the edge of the bed, his raven's wing eyes drinking her in. A pink flush crept up his cheeks and she cupped his face in her palms; his skin was warm to the touch.

But she could not forget that it was demon blood running through his veins, through the veins of their child. She could not forget the tortured creatures chained in the cellar or the murdered friends who visited her in dreams or the bleeding, dying, lycanthrope-bitten Lucian lying on her front steps. Her memory was her savior. It kept her from succumbing to nostalgia for the handsome boy who had cared for her, made love to her, told her she was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. In her mind, this was someone separate. Someone she had long ago buried and mourned.

"We will not fail," she told him, crashing her lips against his.

Inside her mind, she laid him to rest on a bed of pure white flowers. She clung to his back and traced the words across his shoulder blades: ave atque vale, Valentine Morgenstern.

The silver locket hung around Jocelyn's neck like a talisman. Sometimes she swore she could feel it burning - she would actually pull it away from her throat, sure that it was leaving a mark across her skin. But today it felt ice cold, frozen underneath her t-shirt. Sitting in Angel Square, she pressed her hand to it and closed her eyes.

Shadowhunters did not pray, not in the same way as mundanes. This had always bothered her. Why would the Angel have endowed the Nephilim with heavenly powers if he hadn't wanted them to talk to him? She wanted to pray for the safety of those she loved, to wrap them in the Angel's protection, far from harm.

But that was not the Nephilim way. If she'd learned anything in her twenty-one years, it was that Shadowhunters died for honor and the world kept turning.

Nearly every adult in Alicante was currently inside the Hall for the ceremonial signing of the Accords. In a poetic way, it was the perfect backdrop for the Circle's uprising, a way to express their disagreement with the lenient treatment of Downworlders. But there was nothing poetic about the wholesale slaughter of innocents. That was where Jocelyn and Lucian came in.

Using Jocelyn's insider knowledge, they had assembled a Downworlder army to hide in the shadows outside the Hall until she gave the signal. For the hundredth time that night, she thanked the Angel that her parents were safely at Fairchild Manor with Jonathan. It had been difficult to convince them not to come here for the signing, but they had agreed in the end.

It would not be an easy battle, but then, they had the element of surprise on their side. And revenge. There was no one on earth who wanted to exact revenge on Valentine Morgenstern more than Lucian and herself.

Voices were booming inside the Hall now — it couldn't have happened yet, could it? Surely she would know… Jocelyn scrambled down from the fountain and darted up the marble steps, her seraph blade banging against her knee. As soon as the ceremony began, the Circle members would rise from the crowd and draw their weapons —

A scream, then another, then too many to distinguish. Jocelyn sprinted forward, gripped the heavy brass door handles, and flung them open wide.

Time seemed to freeze before her. The Hall, drenched in witchlight, was already crackling with tension; the Circle members were standing, weapons held high, and panicked Shadowhunters were running from the stands.

Jocelyn only saw Valentine. His face was a pale mask of surprise tinged with fear. With a spark of sick pleasure, she saw herself as he must see her now: beautiful and terrible, framed in moonlight, hair cascading over her shoulders as she unsheathed the seraph blade from her weapons belt. Her narrowed eyes locked upon his wide ones.

"Ithuriel!" she shouted in a clear voice that rang throughout the hall, swirling the blade high above her head as it burst with light.

And the world fell into chaos.

The lycanthropes were first, a snarling, howling pack of wolves rushing past Jocelyn in a blur. Lucian was among them, but she couldn't pick him out. She charged into the Hall, closely followed by the faerie knights with their weapons of glass, the lightning-fast vampires, the warlocks carrying with them the sharp, acrid smell of magic. Screams shattered the cool night air — Shadowhunters were running for the doors, spilling out into the streets.

But not all of them would flee. The majority would stay and fight with honor.

Jocelyn sprinted deeper into the Hall, skidding on the marble floor, searching for those in the crowd who were not part of the Circle. There was a plan for this, devised by Ragnor, and she had no choice but to trust that it would work.

As battles clashed around her, she held fast to her seraph blade and chanted out the words of the warlock spell. A few feet away, a Nephilim woman was locked in battle with a faerie knight wielding a weapon of twisted thorns; with a graceful flick of her wrist, Jocelyn directed the spell in the woman's direction and the faerie instantly fell back, unable to touch or harm her.

Satisfied, Jocelyn took off in the opposite direction. The scene was confusing, frenzied - she slammed into bodies every few seconds, never sure if they were friend or foe. Weapons clashed above her head. Her heart was in her throat – she was sure she must have missed decapitation by inches.

Ducking to avoid a jet of warlock-made fire, she ricocheted off a taller man and hit the ground. Her hands shot out to break her fall; instead of hitting the ground, her palms slid through a pool of dark blood. She didn't even blink, rolling into a crouch and springing back up again. She flung herself through the crowd marking out innocent Shadowhunters, but it seemed an impossible feat — the battles were too violent, too fast. She tripped over one body and then another.

Lucian, where are you? Her legs were starting to shake as she ran, still brandishing her glowing blade like a torch.

Someone grabbed Jocelyn's shoulders roughly and spun her around; she cried out in surprise, swinging her blade in a wide arc. It collided with another blade.

Jocelyn looked up into Maryse Lightwood's clear blue eyes.

"What have you done?" Maryse screamed over the roar of the battle. She reared back, then dove at the other girl; Jocelyn blocked her with an effortless turn of the sword.

"Get out of here!" Jocelyn shouted. "I don't want to fight you!"

"Maryse, it's not worth it!" Robert roared, appearing out of thin air. He grabbed Maryse's shoulder and pulled her away without sparing a glance at Jocelyn.

She wheeled around, desperate to find Lucian — her eyes focused on a dais at the center of the Hall. There they were: two men locked in a fierce battle, weapons clashing as they fought to the death.

"No!" she screamed, lurching forward, staggering up the stairs. "Valentine, stop! This is Lucian, your friend, almost your brother—"

Immediately, Valentine was on her, gripping her arm so tightly that his nails dug into her skin and drew blood. He had barely lifted his dagger to her throat when Lucian, paper-white with shock, dropped his own weapon to the ground with a clatter.

Jocelyn could feel the hammer of Valentine's heartbeat. It was almost an embrace, his chest pressed against her back — if it weren't for the knife at her throat, she would have been able to imagine that he was holding her close because he loved her, because he wanted to protect her.

"You always wanted her," Valentine hissed at Lucian. "And now the two of you have plotted my betrayal together. You will regret what you have done all the rest of your lives."

He whirled Jocelyn around to face him. For one wild moment, she thought he might kiss her — instead, he gripped her beloved silver necklace, yanked it free from her neck, and hurled it at Lucian. With a howl of agony, he fell to his knees.

Before she could move, Valentine's arms were locked around her chest, dragging her away into the crowd. She kicked and clawed furiously, but she was no match for him. His voice was one long scream of rage in her ear, a nightmare come to life.

"You will pay for this, Jocelyn. Every day of your life, you will regret what you've done — you will lose everything you hold dear, everything you love…"

"Let go of me!"

"I should kill you for what you've done, Jocelyn – I should betray you the way you have betrayed me-"

"Get the fuck off me!"

With all her strength, Jocelyn drove her elbow into his stomach. They were halfway down the marble steps of the Hall; caught off balance, Valentine stumbled, and she broke free.

The streets were pandemonium. Shadowhunters were pouring out of nearby homes, brandishing weapons; the cold night air was filled with hysterical screams and the cries of children as their parents fought to keep them indoors. The smell of burning oak filled Jocelyn's lungs as she hurtled down Princewater Street and she willed herself not to turn, to seek out the source of the smell.

A large public stable loomed up ahead on the banks of the river. From the sound of it, several horses were inside; they were whinnying in fear, clearly aware that something was wrong. Clouds of dirt rose around Jocelyn as she flew down the path toward the stable and she choked, forcing herself to stop. She hunched over, hands on her knees, coughing and gagging.

Fear stabbed through her like a knife. She had seen Valentine angry before, of course, but never like this. It was like looking into the face of the devil himself. What would he do now? How would he retaliate?

Jonathan's small, delicate face flashed behind her closed eyes. Groaning in pain, Jocelyn straightened up, forcing herself to keep running. She had almost made it to the stable when she realized someone was close behind, screaming her name.

"Jocelyn, stop! It's me! Jocelyn!"

"Lucian?" She barely recognized her own voice, high and cracking with terror.

"Joss, it's okay! It's all right… come here…"

The cloud of dirt and dust around her was so thick that she could barely make out Lucian's face. His hands gripped her shoulders gently, steering her forward.

"Sit down!"

"I can't —"

"Sit. Down!"

She collapsed, still struggling to breathe. Something cold hit her in the face; she jolted back, gasping.

"Breathe, Joss, breathe — you're fine."

The river… of course, they were on the riverbank. Lucian's face swam into view. He was bent over her, covered in dirt and blood, splashing icy water on her face. There was an angry red mark across his throat where the silver necklace had burned him.

"Jonathan," she choked. "I have to get to Jonathan!"

"Where's Valentine?"

"I don't know, I don't know – he could be anywhere-"

Lucian let go of her instantly, running back to the stable and kicking in the door. After a short scuffle, he returned, dragging a large gray horse by the reins.

"Go!" He grabbed her around the waist, helping her up. "Go home — I'll follow you. I can be faster if I Change. I'll be right behind you!"

Jocelyn gripped the reins in her trembling hands and digging her heels into the horse's sides.

"You'll stay close to me?" She looked over her shoulder at Lucian, shoulders heaving.

He swallowed with difficulty, nodding, reaching up to catch her hand and twine their fingers together.

"Whither thou goest, I will go."

It was the smell, more than anything, that would haunt her.

The Hall was burning. She saw it as she rode through the streets of Alicante, the way the sky lit up as though illuminated by heavenly fire. The scent lingered long after she had crossed through the city gates; so long, in fact, that as she grew closer to Fairchild Manor, she assumed that the smoke from the burning town had carried on the wind. She was only a mile from home when she realized.

This was not the smell of a normal fire. It was heavy, tinged with sweetness — from her studies, Jocelyn knew it was something far worse than the Circle was capable of. It was the mark of demonic witchcraft. She slammed her heels into the horse's sides, urging it forward; somehow, even over the frantic galloping and the wind rushing past her ears, she could hear her own heart pounding at breakneck speed.

The smell only intensified. As she flew past the Graymark house, the trees seemed to thin out — they appeared black and bare, almost scorched -

And then she saw it. The moon shone clearly through the trees, illuminating her own driveway, pale and white and winding to nowhere.

To nowhere.

The ruins of Fairchild Manor lay amongst a thicket of burnt trees, still and silent as the grave.

She slid from the horse's back, moving as though she were underwater.

The ground was hot black ash crunching beneath her boots. A cold gust of February wind rustled through the ruin, stirring up swirls of white dust. Pieces of the foundation stood crumbling here and there — a leaning, crumbling chimney, an arching doorway. It all lay bare beneath a lonely silver moon.

Jocelyn bent over, kneeling in the driveway, and gagged until she was violently sick.

Jonathan.

The word seemed to echo with every frantic beat of her heart. She got to her feet and staggered down to the smoldering, blackened front steps. The flowers she had planted on either side to echo the blue of Lucian's eyes were nothing but ash and dirt. She drew a ragged breath, stumbling up the steps and falling to her knees — her veins coursed with a white-hot fear so acute that she was not sure how she was remaining conscious.

The bones were scattered where the doorway had once stood, charred black. She did not need to move closer to identify them. Granville's dagger, his prized possession, was melted entirely to a skeletal hand. Red and gold scraps of Adele's favorite fabric were strewn about, blowing gently in the night breeze. Valentine's silver amulet emblazoned with the insignia of the Circle lay nearby. Scattered amongst the rubble were bones so small, so fragile, that she ached to look at them.

It felt like no time at all before Lucian appeared by her side, but it could have been hours, days. He sank down beside her, hands in his hair.

"Jocelyn," he murmured finally, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. "Can you stand? We… we need to get out of here."

The thought of being moved away from the ruin was like a knife tearing at her heart, but it hurt an equal amount to stay there. Shaking, she got to her feet. Lucian supported her across the driveway and lifted her back onto the horse, climbing up after her. They rode to Graymark Manor, where Lucian ran inside to grab their two small bags of belongings, and then they fled — through the frozen countryside, through the still-burning city of glass, and across the border to France.

A week passed before Jocelyn spoke again. She thought that if she opened her mouth, she would surely start screaming and never stop. It was easiest to dwell in silence, to let Lucian speak for her.

The Parisian motel room was small and unclean, but it was all they could afford with the money they had hidden away. Jocelyn sat cross-legged on the bed, spreading ornate jewelry and priceless artifacts across the pale blue comforter. The most expensive ones went into a separate pile to save for the future.

"We could go to the Institute," Lucian said from the chair in the corner. He looked pale and world-weary, having talked himself hoarse for days.

Jocelyn's head snapped up. "No."

Lucian jumped. He clearly hadn't been expecting her to answer.

"No?"

"I won't seek out the Nephilim for help. Not now, and not ever again."

"But what if they could help, Joss? I'm sure they could keep you safe, help you find somewhere to live…"

"I don't want to be a Shadowhunter anymore," she said, perfectly enunciating each word. "I want no part of the Shadow World to touch my life. I'm done."

Lucian looked stricken. He rose from the chair, crossing the room to sit next to her.

"You can't just… stop being who you are."

Ignoring his words, Jocelyn lifted a silver pendant from the pile on the bed and held it up so it caught the light.

"I'm going to sell this in one of the markets. I can use the money to buy myself a plane ticket."

"Joss…"

"I just want to get as far from Idris as possible." She swallowed with difficulty, turning the pendant over in her hands. "Do you know I dream about them, Lucian? Every single night?"

"Your parents?"

She bit her lip. "I should have told them. The last time I saw them at Stephen's funeral, it was almost like my mother knew… she knew Valentine was capable of terrible things, but I think she was waiting for me to say it. But I didn't. I knew his whole plan for the Accords and our counterattack and what that might mean, but I didn't say anything."

"Joss, no one could have predicted what happened," Lucian said, placing his fingers under her chin gently so that she had no choice but to look into his eyes. "No one could have guessed what Valentine would resort to when he realized we betrayed him."

"And… and Jonathan…" She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I never told you what Valentine did to him. He turned my baby into a monster, Lucian. I thought I was going insane…"

"What do you mean, turned him into a monster?"

"He made me drink demon blood while I was pregnant. Jonathan was never human." Her voice was flat and devoid of emotion. "Valentine meant for him to be some sort of experiment. A kind of demonic Shadowhunter."

"By the Angel." Lucian ran his hands over his face. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because I knew you would be furious with Valentine and try to attack him. And because then I would have to admit to myself that I… that I…" Without warning, tears began to stream down her face. "That I hated my own child. I couldn't even touch him without wanting to vomit."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Jocelyn," he said, suddenly intense. "You did nothing wrong… do you understand me? None of this makes you a bad mother."

"But do you see what I mean? Do you see why I have to leave?" Jocelyn flopped down onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "When I was younger and I met that warlock woman in Alicante, she read my cards. Remember? She said I would have to choose to love or to fight."

Lucian frowned. "But what does that—"

"I chose love," she said. "Choose to fight, and you will never love. But choose to love, and you will never stop fighting. Mine was not the Shadowhunter answer. That wasn't what I was supposed to choose. Shadowhunters put the fight, their heavenly mission, before all else. But me? I fell in love with Valentine. And look where that got me."

"Don't think of it in terms of Valentine. Love is worth the fight, Joss," said Lucian. "Love is worth it all."

Jocelyn sighed.

"The Shadow World has done nothing but break me," she said. "It's given me nothing. I always felt, somewhere deep inside, that there was something else waiting for me if I could just break away… learn how to be somebody new. I want to make a brand-new life for myself and… and my baby."

Comprehension dawned on Lucian's face, slow as a sunrise. "You're pregnant?"

"I found out around Christmas."

He leaned forward, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. His touch almost seemed to burn her.

"Jocelyn, I'll come with you wherever you go. I'll stay with you—"

She sat up, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. "You don't mean that."

"Of course I do."

"You might say that now, but when the baby is born…"

"I'll marry you!"

The words seemed to explode out of his mouth. Jocelyn dropped his hand as though she'd received an electric shock and turned away, hair falling across her face.

"I-I'm sorry, Joss. I just meant… I'll do whatever I need to do to take care of you. I could be your husband and help raise your child… I swear, whatever you need me to be, that's what I'll be for you."

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a small smile cracked across her face.

"I can't ask you to do that, Lucian. Thank you… it's a sweet offer, but I need to do this alone."

"Where will you go?" His bright blue eyes searched her face intently as though hoping to find a clue.

"As far as I need to go to start over."

They rode together in the taxi to Orly Airport the next morning, a plane ticket tucked into the back pocket of Jocelyn's jeans. All of her belongings were packed into one small bag. It rested at her feet as they stood in the departure hall, hurried travelers rushing around them like the current of a river.

She had less than ten minutes to catch her plane, but she could not tear herself away. Turning to face Lucian, she took both his hands in hers and mentally recited everything she could not bring herself to say.

You were always the other half of my soul.

I will never forget you.

I loved you that first day when we were just children playing in a thunderstorm, and I love you now, and I will love you until the end of my life.

His eyes, though unnaturally bright, were wide and encouraging.

"You need to go, Joss. You'll miss your flight."

Jocelyn did not let herself hug him. She knew that if she pulled him into her arms, she would never let go. Instead, she gave him one last look, trying to convey a lifetime of love. Then she dropped his hands, picked up her bag, and walked away.

She made it three steps before she froze, her resolve crumbling as she whirled around. He hadn't moved.

Before she turned to leave for good, Jocelyn choked out the words she had locked inside for the past week.

"Valentine is not dead."