Cross understood what had happened, even if there was no logical reason why he should have. Somehow, there at the end when he’d used the plague on his hand to detonate the bombs and destroy the Necronaught, his spirit had found him. She’d broken though the walls of her prison in spite of Margrave Azazeth’s power and made it so that he could defeat Red when she tried to escape, right there in that prison of souls.
And then, she sacrificed herself to rescue his body and his soul from doom, and in the process she’d sent him home.
Cross put his arms around himself to fight off the night’s chill. Moments later, he was warm. Something enveloped him — it took him in its spectral hold, and it smothered him in a glaze of unseen energies. He heard incomprehensible whispers, and he sensed a presence there beside himself.
It was a spirit. But it wasn’t her.
Somehow, for reasons he felt sure he’d never fully understand, he’d been given another. He sensed her. She felt entirely alien to him, and he could tell that she was just as uncomfortable as he was. She might have even been the slightest bit resentful towards him, or even hostile, but the bond that had already cleaved them together meant that he had nothing to fear from her, or she from him.
I don’t understand. I’m sorry…you’re stuck here with me, stuck with my pain.
Snow…I’m so sorry. I miss you already. I always will.
For a time, Cross just sat there in the cold and wept. The weight of all he had lost came crashing down, and it almost crushed him. His tears froze in the bitter and uncaring wind.
His spirit tugged at him, impatient. Restless. Somehow familiar.
Could it have been her? Could it have been Snow?
Likely, he could never know. But he could hope.
Whoever his new spirit was, she was with him now, and he hoped that in time he would come to feel for her as he had for the spirit who’d saved his life, who’d been the other half of his soul for almost as long as he could remember.
How he’d loved her.
EPILOGUE
He walked the streets of Thornn, bound for the graveyard. It had been some weeks since his return. The world seemed strangely the same in so many ways.
But it wasn’t the same, and it never would be.
Cross had been debriefed and congratulated on a successful mission. There had been many questions regarding the loss of his squad and the airship that had deployed them into the Wormwood. There were even more questions about Viper Squad’s unauthorized engagement in Rhaine, and the fate of that remote town.
In the end, Cross was commended. They gave him a medal, a shiny white platinum ankh on a chain, a symbol of courage and valor. He stuffed it away in a box somewhere and lost the box in his apartment.
There was no talk of reforming Viper Squad. The general consensus was that it would be an ill omen to resurrect a unit that had seen all but one of its members killed in action. Elias Pike, a grizzled officer that Cross would report to from that point on, informed him that he had a place on any Squad of his choice.
Cross asked about reassignment, about helping the Southern Claw in a different way. Pike wanted him in the field.
I’m not sure if that’s where I belong.
Southern Claw scouts confirmed the destruction of the Necronaught bound from Koth to Rath, and arcane reconnaissance verified the presence of an obelisk buried at the bottom of the Carrion Rift. Because the sacrifice had not been properly carried out, the artifact remained unharmed. Now it was buried somewhere beneath tons of iron, rubble and debris. Better yet, it was being unwittingly defended by the shadow hounds and other mutated monstrosities that called the Rift their home, creatures that were hostile to all other things living or dead. Teams would be assembled to recover the obelisk and bring it into Southern Claw hands before the Ebon Cities could acquire it, but in the meantime the source of mankind’s magic was safer than perhaps it had ever been before.
In the end, nothing had really changed, at least not in the grand scheme of things. That had been the point, of course, which meant that Viper Squad’s mission had been a complete success, even with the terrible casualties that had been suffered in the hunt for Margrave Azazeth. She had ultimately failed, and had been eliminated. The Old One was gone. The vampires of the Ebon Cities had gained no new advantage over the Southern Claw. The outcasts of Koth, in the meantime, remained a threat, and in time they would have a new leader.
Life went on.
Cross tried to adjust to his spirit, but it was clear from the start that things would be difficult between them. She was anxious and headstrong, reckless with abandon. He feared when he’d first have to go into combat with her or, worse yet, when they’d come into the presence of the recently dead. It was like playing with fire.
In many ways, Cross was a novice again. He and his spirit had been together for most of his life, had grown to know each other. She’d been an integral part of him.
There was a stranger inside of him, now. He had to start all over.
Cross knew that he would have to make a decision soon regarding his future with the Southern Claw. Retirement wasn’t out of the question, considering the short life expectancy of warlocks. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility of returning to the field, either. His spirit wanted to roam wild and free.
Cross had nightmares about Snow, trapped in that burning train as it plummeted over the cliff and into a canyon filled with nightmares.
He saw to it that a grave marker was placed for her, right next to their mother. The other members of Viper Squad had been interred in a separate section of the graveyard, but Cross managed to get a special plate made to commemorate the squad as a whole, which he placed right next to Snow.
He wanted to remember them all together.
Cross stood and looked down at those markers. It was a cold, dry day, much like the last had been. The Reach lay flat and frozen to the east, an eye-numbing white waste that faded beneath a horizon of dark clouds.
The sounds of war machinery thundered from the Bonespire to the west. There were rumors that the vampires were mobilizing for an attack on Thornn, the first such attack in many months. With Red gone, they had turned their attention back to traditional means of wiping out the humans.
“ What am I supposed to do?” he whispered to the freezing wind. His ears and hands were cold thanks to the gnawing chill. It was nearly spring, but there was little way to tell.
Cross’ spirit hung in the air, circling, her power lapping against him like waves of cold water. She made him tired all over.
What am I supposed to do?
The wind picked up, causing the Tin Man to rattle in the wind. Cross glanced at it, and then at the other tree, the one he and Snow had looked at when they’d been there last, when her whole life was still ahead of them. Before she’d followed him into war to die.
Cross’ eyes caught on something. He walked over to it.
The white apple was still there. It had been weeks since he’d last seen it, but it was identical. It was as if the scene when he and Snow had first happened upon the fruit had been frozen in time.
Before his eyes, a tiny, ice-white spider the same color as the eastern snows crawled across its face.
Cross smiled, and nodded.
“ All right,” he whispered. “All right.”
Cross watched the spider until it scurried out of sight, and then he walked back to the city.
