The Forgotten Locket by Lisa Mangum Page B

my own true name again. And to be able to share this moment with Dante was the sweetest gift I could have asked for.
     
    I nestled into his embrace, unwilling to break away for even a moment.
     
    “Abby?” he said again, and this time I heard the strain in his voice.
     
    “What is it? Are you all right?”
     
    His body trembled next to me. “I’ll be fine. It’s just . . . that took more out of me than I’d planned.” Dante untangled himself slightly from me. He still held onto my arms, but I could tell that he wanted—needed—to sit down.
     
    “You planned this?” I sat down on the flat ground, pulling him into place next to me. I crossed my legs under me, but I didn’t let go of his hand. The small contact was not enough after being apart for so long—in body, soul, and mind—but it would have to do.
     
    “Well, not all of it. There was always the chance you might have said no.”
     
    “Not likely.”
     
    Dante smiled, then winced. He touched the bandage at his temple with fingers that trembled.
     
    “Your eyes,” I said gently. “Are they bothering you?” With the block in my mind destroyed, I knew exactly how Dante had been injured. As much as I didn’t want to remember that moment when Zo had drawn a blade across Dante’s eyes, I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it.
     
    “No more than usual.” His voice was as shallow as his breathing.
     
    I reached for the cloth, barely touching the edge. “Will you show me?”
     
    A muscle jumped in Dante’s jaw. “You don’t want to see—”
     
    “Yes,” I interrupted gently, “I do. Please.”
     
    He hesitated, then gave one swift nod.
     
    I shifted to my knees before him, my heart fluttering.
     
    He sat as still as a statue as I quietly slipped my hands over his shoulders to the back of his neck. I touched the knot holding the bandage in place and, with shaking fingers, I slowly and carefully worked it free, trying not to pull the fabric tight against his eyes.
     
    As soon as the knot was loose, Dante reached up and held the edges in place. “Abby—” he started. “No. Here—I’ll do it.”
     
    “All right,” I said. “I’m ready.” I sat back on my heels, giving him the time he needed to unveil his eyes.
     
    He took a deep breath, held it, then let it go. After a long moment, he lowered the bandage, crumpling the fabric in his hands, and turned his face to me.
     
    I had thought I was ready for anything, but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw or for the sharp stab of anguish I felt.
     
    My throat closed up at the sight of his eyes; I couldn’t look away. Dante’s eyes had once been the gray of storm clouds and iced steel, but now a film covered them that was as thick and sluggish as the one that skimmed the surface of the river. A bold scar carved a path on his face, drawing a line from cheek to cheek, right across his eyes.
     
    It was impossible that he could see anything.
     
    I realized too late that he was waiting for me to say something. “Dante—” I started, hoping I could mask the despair in my voice.
     
    He heard it anyway. “I’m sorry,” he said and raised the bandage, poised to cover his eyes and hide them away again.
     
    Touching his wrist, I stopped him. I could feel his heartbeat racing as he waited, tense and on edge, for me to do something, say something.
     
    I reached out and placed my palm against his cheek—a perfect fit—and turned his face toward me. My fingers brushed the very edge of the scar that marked the length of his wound.
     
    He flinched, but barely.
     
    I took a deep breath. My words were steady and sure, though my heart shook with uncertainty. “V once told me that the only person who could hurt a Master of Time was another Master of Time. Tell me he was wrong. Tell me Zo’s attack wasn’t permanent. Tell me he . . . missed.”
     
    He knew what I wanted to hear, but he was Dante, so he gave me the truth instead. He always gave me the truth. “V was correct. A