Remembering the way Rafe’s eyes blazed with an unspoken threat when he verbally laid claim to the fruit, and knowing that the best way to overcome them is to surprise them, to catch them off guard. Catch them completely unaware.

Best to keep quiet, move stealthily, to not allow for even the slightest of hints that I’ve made my return.

I make my way along the long and winding tangle of roots until I’ve finally progressed far enough to get a clearer view of the enormous trunk. Its width the size of a building—its branches reaching so high it looks like one of nature’s skyscrapers. And I’ve just reached its base, when I see them.

See them looking as battered and bloodied as I probably do—and knowing they did it to one another, that they fought like hell to be the first one to reach it. And despite being outnumbered by Misa and Marco, it appears Rafe has won.

He clings to a branch—one that soars a good few feet from the one Misa and Marco now dangle from.

And if the sight of that wasn’t bad enough—if the fact that they’ve managed to beat me by a long shot isn’t completely and totally deflating—what’s worse is the fact that Rafe not only beat us all to it—but that he now holds the fruit in his hand.

He succeeded.

Accomplished what we could not.

I can see it in his grin of victory. I can hear it in his triumphant yell.

He’s won.

We’ve lost.

I’ve lost.

And a thousand years must pass before we get another shot.

But despite the obvious defeat, that doesn’t stop me from making a mad scramble up the side, my fingers digging deep into the bark as my feet desperately seek for a foothold. Even though the game is clearly over, even though Rafe is clearly the victor, I refuse to surrender, refuse to forfeit.

He will not rob me of my destiny.

He will not steal my last chance to make things right with the universe.

I will not wait for a thousand more years.

His eyes light upon me. Seemingly amused by my struggle. Lifting the fruit high into the air, high enough for us all to see, he pauses, savoring the moment of victory.

His smile wide, his eyes never once straying from mine as he inserts the fruit between his front teeth, and bites down.

Chapter thirty-three

I cling to my branch, not wanting to watch, yet unable to tear my gaze away. Overcome by the shame and humiliation of having been beaten. Knocked sideways by the horrible realization that I’ve failed at the one and only thing I was born to do.

My body reduced to a throbbing, bleeding pulp of a mess—my soul mate convinced I’ve abandoned him—as Rafe makes a show of enjoying the fruit.

And for what?

What was the point of it all?

Why fight so hard? Why succeed at each and every step, only to fail at the one thing that counts more than anything else?

This bitter taste of defeat reminding me of what I once said to Damen after I’d confessed the whole horrible story behind my thwarted bout of time travel:

Sometimes destiny lies just outside of our reach.

And surprised to find that no longer rings true.

My destiny is still very much attainable.

There’s no way it ends here.

I leap.

Working past the screaming pain in my body—working past my protesting muscles, my raw and bloody palms. I leap as high as I can, grab hold of the branch just above me, and then the one above that. Swinging like an agile monkey, untill I’m just one branch below Misa and Marco, who are now only one branch below Rafe.

And when Rafe surprises us all by leaping from his branch to theirs, I see his face is still aged, still marked by time, and yet there’s no denying his glow—he’s positively radiant—he has an aura that’s beaming—all the proof that I need to know that it worked, his immortality has been reversed. He drops what little remains of the fruit onto Misa’s outstretched palms, then scrambles to the ground, as I swing myself up to where they now stand.

I veer toward them. Cringing at the sound of the branch creaking ominously from the stress of our combined weight, though they don’t seem to notice, don’t seem to care. They’re too distracted by the sight of the fruit, and the distant cry of a whooping and hollering Rafe as he makes his way down the roots.

“Don’t come any closer,” Marco says, taking notice of me.

I freeze. Not because he told me to, but because my eye just caught sight of something unusual, something I never expected to see.

“Stay right where you are.” He glances at Misa, gestures for her to proceed and I watch as she shoves the fruit between her lips, her shiny white teeth tearing into the hard, velvety flesh as she closes her eyes, takes a moment to savor the taste before she hands it to Marco, who looks at me and says, “If I was feeling generous, if I had the slightest bit of concern for you, I’d share this last bite. After all, it appears there’s enough for both of us, wouldn’t you agree?”

I sink my teeth into my lip, hoping he’s too involved in taunting me to pay any notice to the miracle that is occurring just a handful of branches away.

Is it?

Could it actually be?

Should I trust in what my gut is telling me?

Should I trust in something that goes against every myth, every bit of wisdom I’ve ever learned about this tree?

Or shall I tackle Marco right here, right now? Get at that last bit of fruit while I can, knowing they’re as bloodied, broken, and weakened as I am?

He holds it before him, teasing, mocking, parting his lips in an exaggerated way. And I know it’s time to choose, time to decide between what I’ve been told and what I see happening before me, when he says, “But, as it turns out, I’m not feeling the least bit generous toward you, so I think I’ll just take the opportunity to finish this very last bit.”