Divine_Rivals_-_Rebecca_Ross
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About the Author
Copyright Page
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For Isabel Ibañez,
who read this book as I wrote it,
who convinced me to add Roman’s POV,
& who occasionally lets me get away with things.
P.S. I’m talking about Chapter 34.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
—EMILY DICKINSON
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Prologue
Cold fog had settled over the depot like a burial shroud, and Iris Winnow
thought the weather couldn’t have been better. She could hardly see the
train through the gloam, but she could taste it in the evening air: metal and
smoke and burning coal, all woven together with a trace of petrichor. The
wooden platform was slick beneath her shoes, gleaming with rain puddles
and piles of decaying leaves.
When Forest came to a stop at her side, she stopped as well, as if she
were his mirror. The two of them were often mistaken for twins with their
wide-set hazel eyes, wavy chestnut hair, and the freckles that spilled across
their noses. But Forest was tall, Iris petite. He was five years her senior, and
for the first time in her life, Iris wished that she were older than him.
“I won’t be gone long,” he said. “Only a few months, I think.”
Her brother glanced at her in the fading light, waiting for her to respond.
It was eventide, the moment between darkness and light, when the
constellations began to dust the sky and the city lamps flickered to life in
reply. Iris could feel the draw of it—Forest’s concerned stare and the golden
light that illuminated the low-hanging clouds—and yet her eyes wandered,
desperate for a distraction. A moment to blink away her tears before Forest
could see them.
There was a soldier to her right. A young woman dressed in a perfectly
starched uniform. Iris was struck by a wild thought. One that must have
traveled across her face, because Forest cleared his throat.
“I should come with you,” Iris said, meeting his gaze. “It’s not too late. I
can enlist—”
“No, Iris,” Forest replied sharply. “You made me two promises,
remember?”
Two promises, hardly a day old. Iris frowned. “How could I forget.”
“Then speak them back to me.”
She crossed her arms to ward off the autumn chill and the strange
cadence in Forest’s voice. There was a hint of desperation she hadn’t heard
in him until now, and gooseflesh rippled across her arms beneath her thin
sweater.
“Take care of Mum,” she said, mimicking his baritone. It brought a smile
to his face. “Stay in school.”
“I believe it was a bit more than a gruff ‘Stay in school,’” Forest said,
nudging her foot with his boot. “You brilliant academic who has yet to miss
a day of class in all her years. They give awards for that, you know.”
“Fine.” Iris relented, a blush nipping her cheeks. “You said, ‘Promise
me you’ll enjoy your final year of school, and I’ll be back in time to see you
graduate.’”
“Yes,” Forest said, but his smile began to wane.
He didn’t know when he’d return. It was a promise he couldn’t keep to
her, although he continued to make it sound as if the war would end in a
matter of months. A war that had only just begun.
What if I had been the one to hear the song? Iris thought, her heart so
heavy it felt bruised against her ribs. If I had encountered the goddess and
not him … would he let me go like this?
Her gaze dropped to Forest’s chest. The place where his own heart was
beating beneath his olive-green uniform. A bullet could pierce him in a split
second. A bullet could keep him from ever returning home.
“Forest, I—”
She was interrupted by a shrill whistle that made her jump. It was the
last call to board, and there was a sudden shuffle toward the train cars. Iris
shivered again.
“Here,” Forest said, setting down his leather satchel. “I want you to have
this.”
Iris watched as her brother opened the clasp and withdrew his tan-
colored trench coat. He held it out to her, arching his brow when she merely
stared at it.
“But you’ll need it,” she argued.
“They’ll give me one,” he replied. “Something war approved, I imagine.
Go on, take it, Little Flower.”
Iris swallowed, accepting his trench coat. She slipped her arms into it,
belting the worn fabric tight across her waist. It was too big for her, but it
was comforting. It felt like armor. She sighed.
“You know, this smells like the horologist’s shop,” she drawled.
Forest laughed. “And what, exactly, does a horologist’s shop smell
like?”
“Like dusty, half-wound clocks and expensive oil and those tiny metal
instruments you use to fix all the broken pieces.” But that was only partly
true. The coat also held a remnant of the Revel Diner, where she and Forest
would eat dinner at least twice a week while their mother waited tables. It
smelled of the riverside park, of moss and damp stones and long walks, and
Forest’s sandalwood aftershave because, no matter how much he wanted
one, he couldn’t grow a beard.
“Then it should keep you good company,” he said, slinging his satchel
over his shoulder. “And you can have the wardrobe all to yourself now.”
Iris knew he was trying to lighten the mood, but it only made her
stomach ache to think about the small closet they shared in their flat. As if
she would truly store his clothes somewhere else while he was gone.
“I’m sure I’ll need the spare hangers, since—as you well know—I keep
up with all the current fashion trends,” Iris countered wryly, hoping Forest
couldn’t hear the sadness in her voice.
He only smiled.
This was it, then. The platform was nearly empty of soldiers, and the
train was hissing through the gloom. A knot welled in Iris’s throat; she bit
the inside of her cheek as Forest embraced her. She closed her eyes, feeling
the scratch of his linen uniform against her cheek, and she held the words
she wanted to say in her mouth like water: How can you love this goddess
more than me? How can you leave me like this?
Their mother had already spoken such sentiments, angry and upset with
Forest for enlisting. Aster Winnow had refused to come to the depot to see
him off, and Iris imagined she was at home, weeping as the denial wore
away.
The train began to move, creeping along the tracks.
Forest slipped from Iris’s arms.
“Write to me,” she whispered.
“I promise.”
He took a few steps backward, holding her gaze. There was no fear in
his eyes. Only a dark, feverish determination. And then Forest turned,
rushing to board the train.
Iris followed until he disappeared into the closest car. She lifted her
hand and waved, even as tears blurred her vision, and she stood on the
platform long after the train had vanished into the fog. Rainwater was
seeping into her shoes. The lamps flickered overhead, buzzing like wasps.
The crowd had dispersed, and Iris felt hollow—alone—as she began to
walk home.
Her hands were cold, and she slipped them into the coat pockets. That
was when she felt it—a crinkle of paper. Frowning, she assumed it was a
candy wrapper that Forest had forgotten about until she pulled it out to
study in the dim light.
It was a small piece of paper, folded crookedly, with a vein of typed
words. Iris couldn’t resist smiling, even as her heart ached. She read:
Just in case you didn’t know … you are by far the best sister I’ve ever had. I’m so proud of
you.
And I’ll be home before you know it, Little Flower.
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PART ONE
Letters Through the Wardrobe
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{1}
Sworn Enemies
FIVE MONTHS LATER
Iris dashed through the rain with a broken high heel and a tattered trench
coat. Hope was beating wildly in her chest, granting her speed and luck as
she crossed the tram tracks downtown. She had been anticipating this day
for weeks, and she knew she was ready. Even soaked, limping, and hungry.
Her first pang of unease came when she stepped into the lobby. This was
an old building, constructed before the gods were vanquished. A few of
those dead divines were painted on the ceiling, and despite the cracks and
the faint light of the low-hanging chandeliers, Iris always glanced up at
them. Gods and goddesses dancing among the clouds, dressed in long
gilded robes with stars gleaming in their hair, their gazes sweeping the
ground. It sometimes felt like those painted eyes were watching her, and Iris
stifled a shiver. She removed her mangled right shoe and hurried to the lift
with a stilted gait, thoughts of the gods swiftly fading when she thought
about him. Perhaps the rain had slowed down Roman too, and she still had a
chance.
She waited a full minute. The confounded lift must be stuck, of all days,
and she decided to take the stairs, hustling up to the fifth floor. She was
shaking and sweating when she finally pushed through the heavy doors to
the Oath Gazette, greeted by a wash of yellow lamplight, the scent of strong
tea, and the morning hustle of preparing the newspaper.
She was four minutes late.
Iris stood amidst the hum, her gaze flickering to Roman’s desk.
It was empty, and she was pleased until she glanced at the assignment
board and saw him standing there, waiting for her to appear. As soon as
their eyes met, he gave her a lazy smile and reached up to the board,
yanking a piece of paper from a pin. The last assignment.
Iris didn’t move, not even when Roman Kitt wound around the cubicles
to greet her. He was tall and lithe with cheekbones that could cut stone, and
he waved the piece of paper in the air, just out of her reach. The piece of
paper she so badly wanted.
“Late again, Winnow,” he greeted her. “The second time this week.”
“I didn’t know you were keeping tally, Kitt.”
His smirk eased as his gaze dropped to her hands, cradling her broken
shoe. “Looks like you ran into a bit of trouble this time.”
“Not at all,” she replied, her chin tilted upward. “I planned for this, of
course.”
“For your heel to break?”
“For you to get this final assignment.”
“Going easy on me, then?” He arched a brow. “That’s surprising. We’re
supposed to duel to the death.”
She snorted. “A hyperbolic turn of phrase, Kitt. Which you do often in
your articles, by the way. You should be careful of that tendency if you get
columnist.”
A lie. Iris rarely read what he wrote. But he didn’t know that.
Roman’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so hyperbolic about soldiers going
missing at the front?”
Iris’s stomach clenched, but she hid her reaction with a thin smile. “Is
that the topic of the last assignment? Thanks for letting me know.” She
turned away from him and began to weave around cubicles to her desk.
“It doesn’t matter if you know it,” he insisted as he followed her. “I have
the assignment.”
She reached her desk and flicked on her lamp. “Of course, Kitt.”
He wasn’t leaving. He continued to stand by her cubicle, watching her
set down her tapestry bag and her mangled high heel like it was a badge of