I can’t lie to her, but I can’t tell her the whole truth, either. “Daciana, please. Let me do this for you.”
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods. “What do you need?”
“Privacy. This kind of magic requires focus.” I glance toward the door. “Wait outside. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
She hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave, but then she nods and heads out of the room. I wait until I hear her footsteps fade before turning back to the bodies.
The spell requires blood. Always blood. I draw my knife across my palm, letting the crimson well up and drip onto the floor in a pattern. The old words come easily. I learned them long ago, though I swore I’d never use them again.
The magic rises fast—too fast. It latches onto me like hooks in flesh, pulling. I should have prepared better, should have—
My throat closes. I double over, coughing violently, and blood spatters across one of the white cloths. Not good. This isn’t supposed to happen so quickly.
The door slams open.
“Kieran!”
Daciana rushes in, Artisem right behind her.
Damn it. I told her to stay away.
“Stop!” Artisem’s eyes are wide with recognition and horror. “Kieran, stop the spell!”
I can’t. I’m too far in now. If I stop, I’ll learn nothing, and Daciana will have no way of knowing the truth. I thrust my hand out, erecting a barrier around myself. The shimmering wall of magic snaps into place, cutting them off.
“Kieran, no!” Daciana slams against the barrier, but it holds. Barely.
“The magic he’s using”—Artisem grabs her arm, his voice frantic—“it saps his life force! Every second he maintains it, it’s draining him!”
“What?” Her face goes white. “Kieran, stop! Stop right now!”
I shake my head, focusing on the spell. The dead have stories to tell; I just need to reach them, to pull the truth from them.
Suddenly, the barrier shatters.
I stumble backward, the spell breaking in a cascade of failed magic. Impossible! I have years of experience, decades of practice. No one should be able to break through my defenses, especially not…
Daciana grabs me by the front of my tunic, shaking me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “What were you thinking?!”
I stare at her, still reeling. For a moment, I’d forgotten: the gypsy witch blood in her veins. Magic that doesn’t follow the rules I know.
“Do you want me to lose you, too?!” Her voice breaks on the last word. “Is that what you want?”
“I want to get revenge,” I say. “I want to find who did this to your family.”
“I’ll track the killer using old-fashioned means.” She’s still shaking me, her grip fierce. “You’re not trading your life to find out who killed my family. Do you hear me? You’re not.”
I see the tears gathering in her eyes, threatening to spill over. My heart clenches.
“I won’t lose you, too,” she whispers. “I can’t.”
The tears fall, and I pull her into my arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She weeps against my chest, her whole body shaking. All the grief she’s been keeping locked up comes pouring out, and I hold her through it, my arms tight around her.
“I promise,” I murmur into her hair. “You won’t lose me. I promise.”
The guilt sits heavily in my stomach. I should have told her what the spell would cost me. Should have been honest instead of trying to be her hero.
