“What?”
“Angelblood. The Alabath line has Angelblood.” When no one said anything, she continued, pacing around the room. “Don’t you see? That Mystique Warrior in the book is Annellius and he died because he couldn’t complete the task the Angelcurse required of him. Angelblood marked him as chosen, something ignited the curse, and he lost his life because of it.
“For whatever reason, the Angelblood is dormant in me, but it’s active in Ophelia. She was told as much.” Her voice rose, a mix of impatience and desperation. “And now she’s stained with another curse—this Angelcurse. It’s not a farce like the last. This one could truly kill her.” Jezebel’s face paled as she said it.
No cure but blood…death is the ultimate sacrifice.
“And somehow,” Barrett continued, “it seems my mother knows what lurks in Ophelia’s blood. And she wants it.”
“Two forces, both threatening Ophelia’s life…” Lyria mumbled. My Bind thudded once.
“The question is,” Cyph said, looking up from my father’s papers to meet my eyes, “which will kill her first?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ophelia
As I blinkedmy eyes open, dusk cut harsh shadows across the room. A heavy weight settled across my hip. Tol’s arm.
We’d slept all day—the most rest I’d had in weeks—and at some point, I had curled into him. I looked up at the relaxed lines of his face. His lips were set in a peaceful smile that even the bruise on his cheek couldn’t mar.
My stomach flipped when I remembered kissing those lips just hours ago. Fear threatened to bubble inside me, the sharp edges of a heartbreak I was still healing from prodding against my mind.
No, I coached myself.Don’t retreat. Because I didn’t want to succumb to that fear with Tol. I wanted to allow him to soothe those jagged parts for me, rather than let them tear us apart.
“What are you looking at, Alabath?” he whispered.
“Nothing,” I sighed, burrowing closer to him, telling fear to take a reprieve.
Before my eyes could close, voices rose from the dining room, feet stomping up the stairs, and our bubble of bliss burst. We both shot up.
“Window?” Tol asked.
“Window.”
We threw our leathers back on, cramming the rest of our belongings in my pack and strapping on weapons.
I tossed the Vincienzo dagger to him as the door burst open and three Engrossians charged through.
“Nothing like a good wake-up call,” Tol said, hopping over the bed and driving his dagger into the first warrior’s neck before he could raise his ax. “Window, Alabath!”
I jumped to the ledge, but the second Engrossian was closer to me. He grabbed my boot, tugging me back.
Latching on to the top pane of the window, I swung my other leg up, toe catching him in the chin. He released me with a grunt, head cracking back as he fell.
“Go!” Tol shouted.
He fought off the third Engrossian, dagger to ax, backing toward me. In my mind, that ax landed on Tol again. The memory of his blood coated my cheeks and the air between us.
Looking around, I grabbed Tol’s wineglass from the night before and threw it at the Engrossian. He ducked, the glass brushing his shoulder as it sailed past.
I climbed out the window, fingers digging into the greenery that grew up Wayward’s facade, and scaled down. Tol was above me.
When my boots hit the ground, a fourth Engrossian rounded the side of the inn.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Tol cursed. His hair stood up on one side from sleep, but he had a white-knuckled grip on his dagger.
I ripped Angelborn from my back, launching her at the Engrossian. She stuck in his shoulder, and he fell with a thud.
