Free The Last Dream Keeper by Amber Benson Page A

Bell—
    This sounds so trite, but if you are reading this it’s because I’m gone, or near to it. Niamh will take this to the general store and post it to you. She’s trustworthy—and my last remaining blood sister. She won’t let either of us down.
    You will know what to do with its contents.
    I should have said this to you twenty years ago, but it just never seemed like we were in a place for it to not be misconstrued: I love you. I always will. You are my soul mate. Now and forever.
    Be careful. The Flood is coming . . . no, The Flood is already here. We were all just too stupid to realize.
    All my love,
    E.
    Arrabelle stared at the letter, her brain disbelieving its contents. She reread Evan’s words again, trying to process what he was telling her.
    Evan was gone? How could that be? Wouldn’t she have felt it?
    Nothing in the letter made any sense.
    Except the part where he told you he loved you,
Arrabelle thought, her throat tight as she fought back tears.
All these years and only when the world is ending, only when he’s gone does he say it . . .
    She hated him in that moment—but hate was just the flip side of love.
    Arrabelle pushed back the wooden bench and got to her feet, her body off balance, legs unsteady. Her heart wasslamming in her chest, banging against her rib cage, begging to be let out. She laid her palms flat on the scarred tabletop, feeling the deep grooves her knives had made in the wood. Her life’s work as an herbalist had created those scars, and once upon a time, they would’ve reassured her. But in light of what she’d just read, she felt untethered . . .
lost
.
    Her work meant nothing when her heart was broken and the man she loved wasn’t there, standing beside her. All these years she’d lied to her heart, telling the poor hardworking muscle that it was superfluous. She didn’t need it. She could choose to be cold and unemotional, tough as nails. That way she’d be safe.
    Ha! What a joke. Only in this moment could she see just how big an idiot she’d been.
    She needed love just like everyone else.
    She wasn’t immune.
    She wanted Evan.
    *   *   *
    She pressed
redial
, but the outcome was the same. The number was no longer in service.
    â€œDamn,” Arrabelle muttered, ending the call and setting her cell phone down on the table. It had been so long since she’d spoken to Evan, she didn’t know for sure if this number was even his most recent one. She should never have let it go so long between phone calls.
    She and Evan would always be connected, no matter the time and space that physically separated them. And even though she’d always felt inextricably drawn to him, she’d been able to stuff those “love” feelings away. Because there were just so few people you met in life who really
got
you, and so when you found one, you held on to them for dear life. Even if that meant you weren’t honest with yourself about how they really made you feel.
    But now she wasn’t sure what to think. Evan wasunreachable,
gone
—as he’d said in his letter—and all that was left of him was a leather-bound book. Whatever information it contained, she knew it would only upset her.
    She picked it up, weighing it in her hands. It felt very light. The plain leather cover was dark with dirt and ash, and when she lifted it to her nose, the scent of burnt paper leapt out at her. There was a thin brass hasp where a lock had once been, but it was long gone.
    It took Arrabelle a moment to realize this was someone’s journal.
    All those private thoughts on display and now it’s available to anyone who cares to read it,
Arrabelle thought, feeling guilty for even holding the book in her hands.
But Evan wanted me to have it and I trust his judgment.
    With a silent apology, Arrabelle flipped open the cover. Inside, someone had written:
Property of Niamh