When I was younger—and even now—whenever anything good or bad happened, I was always told to look for the other two. I’m not sure if it’s a belief particular to the South, to old wives, or to anybody who is even the slightest bit superstitious but everything, no matter if it’s good or bad, comes in threes. Runs of luck? Comes in threes. Death? Come in threes. Anything and everything comes in threes.
So it should really be no surprise to anyone that when I decided to tell Lucy’s story, it would not only be the third and concluding part of the Winged series but it would also be told in three parts.
Trilogies are interesting—at least from the writing perspective. You go in to each one knowing you have to move the chess pieces around just enough to keep the game going but not have it end too soon. You’re allowed a little more leeway in regards to cliffhangers because readers expect things to be in a constant state of transition. You’re also allowed a little more wiggle room about length as long as, in the end, the story is fully told and everybody is satisfied.
I always knew Lucy’s story was going to be cracked and broken and rough around the edges. After all, that was Lucy. But Lucy also fought fiercely and loved whole-heartedly and never, ever backed down from anything, good or bad. If anyone deserved to have her story told, it was Lucy.
Even—or especially if—it was in threes.
All my life, I've had plans.
Dying the day before beginning the final year of my surgical residency wasn't one of them.
Finding myself drafted in the eternal war between good and evil wasn't one of them, either.
And dealing with friends, enemies, and lovers I don't remember?
Definitely not in my plans.
The problem with plans?
Even the best ones can go awry. And when they do... all hell breaks loose.
If I've learned only one thing in the last few months, it's the past never dies.
Four plagues down. Six more to come.
We need more than a plan.
We need a miracle.