Free Arianna Rose: The Arrival (Part 4) by Jennifer Martucci, Christopher Martucci Page B

assumptions about me, Desmond,” she said and felt her mind tilt violently.  “I mean one minute I am supposed to destroy humanity and help others like us wreak havoc on the world and the next, people are bowing to me like I am something special.  I just want to know what’s going on, what’s expected of me.”
    “Nothing is expected of you.  Just be you.  You will know what to do when the time comes, just as you have until now,” he said.  His voice was deep and comforting, a familiar sound that never failed to ease whatever burden she shouldered.  He crossed the small room and stopped behind her.  He placed his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them gently.  His touch relaxed her further and she allowed her head to ease back against his solid chest.  She turned slightly and rested her cheek over his heart, its steady drum a reassuring reminder of what little sanity remained in her life. 
    “ So you have no idea either, huh,” she teased and circled his waist with both arms.  “That’s not good.”
    Desmond chuckled briefly.  “No, I don’t.  All I know is everything my father told me was a lie.”
    Arianna tightened her grip on Desmond’s midsection.  He groaned loudly.  “Ah,” he complained.
    “Jeez!  I’m not that strong, Desmond,” she sassed.  But when his hold on her lessened, she immediately knew he was not playing around.  Something was wrong. She leaned back and looked at his face.  His eyes were narrowed to slits, his mouth a hard line.  “Desmond, are you okay?” she asked.  He did not answer.  His hands fell from her body and flew to his chest, the left side of his chest, clutching his heart.  His posture was tormented, anguished.  “Desmond, what is it?” She heard her asinine question, heard it as if it were another speaking from the end of a long tunnel.  She did not know what to do.  She did not know if ancient warlocks suffered heart attacks.  Should she call 9-1-1?  She doubted her cell phone worked in the middle of a forest.  Her mind spun like wheels in mud, spinning and burrowing fruitlessly.  “I’ll get help,” she said and turned for the door, fully prepared to scream at the top of her lungs until someone came, but a strong hand latched onto her wrist and held it firmly.  She looked down at the sizable, familiar hand then spun.  She saw Desmond, paler than usual, but no longer covering his heart. 
    “Don’t,” he said.  His lips, ordinarily a healthy mauve, bore a bluish tint.  “I’m fine.”
    He did not look fine.  He was able to speak, but his coloring was ashen.  “You do not look well.  Please, let me at least get Briathos.”
    “No.  That is not necessary.  I am fine.  But my father,” his voice trailed off.
    “You father?” Arianna asked and wondered what the hell his father could possibly have to do with his episode.  
    “Something has happened to my father,” Desmond answered.  “He is gone.  I can feel it.”
    “Gone?  What do you mean gone ?” she asked though a part of her knew exactly what he’d meant. 
    “He’s dead, Arianna.”
    Dead?  Agnon was dead?  She thought she’d be happy to hear such news.  Agnon had tried to have Desmond, his only son, killed; yet hearing he was gone chilled the blood in her veins. 
    “How can you be sure? ” she questioned.
    Desmond ran both hands through his hair then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.  “ Our energy is interconnected.  I am his son and I can feel his existence to an extent.”
    “And you don’t feel that energy now?”
    “Worse.  I felt his energy snuffed.”  Desmond gritted his teeth and spat the words with disdain.  “I need to leave.  I need to find out what happened.”
    “Desmond, no!  You cannot go.  What if this is a trap?” she panicked as too many terrifying scenarios presented themselves at once. 
    “I must,” he said with finality that did not leave room for argument. 
    “Fine, but I’m going with