28
Penny
Ididn't look at Kit. I couldn't.
Instead, I glared directly at Merrick while I choked down the vile poison, then handed the skull chalice back to the Sentinel.
I wasn't a coward, and I wouldn't die like one either. And I wouldn't give my half-brother the satisfaction of seeing me as distraught as I'd been the night before. Part of me felt smug thinking of the makeshift deed to the farm, placed in Kit's name. Merrick would be furious if he found out he'd been passed over again, and I hoped the slight cut him through.
The Sentinel passed the empty vessel to Merrick, who tucked it under his arm.
“Klaus will remain here to monitor you to be sure you don’t take measures to lessen the effects of the poison,” Merrick said while pulling the hood of his cloak over his head.
The blood drained from my face, taking with it every ounce of my righteous indignation. There would be no opportunity to take the charcoal under the Sentinel’swatch, and there was no telling how long he would stay. The unexpected turn of events was so staggering that it quashed my humor at realizing this wasKlaus. Violette's Klaus. Purportedly more well-endowed than Merrick. I would have laughed but, instead, I wanted to cry.
“Shouldyou vomit,” Merrick continued while handing the bottle of hemlock to Klaus, “you will be given another dose. Best of luck, initiates.” With a final smirk, he let himself out of the house and disappeared into the snow.
Beside me, Kit got to his feet, then offered me a hand up. His grip was bruising, and he held on as long as either of us dared before I moved to settle on the couch.
“You’re free to sit,” Kit told Klaus, but the Sentinel shook his head without a word.
Kit sank heavily beside me and expelled a long breath. He fixed his gaze straight ahead but, even in profile, his expression was haunted.
Time stretched on, and panic built as my heart raced. I forced myself to breathe slowly, deeply, not wanting to test my damaged lungs.
With Kit so close, it was a sore temptation to take his hand. His fingers pressed into his thighs, knuckles white and straining.
But neither of us moved or spoke, and Klaus remained as rigid as a boulder, for two long hours.
After the time was up, Klaus pocketed the bottle of hemlock and pulled up his hood. “Initiates, whether you emerge strengthened, or succumb to shadows, your fate is sealed. Embrace the transformation, for in triumph or tragedy, you are bound to the legacy of Eeus. May your destiny align with his will.” With a brief dip of his head, the Sentinel let himself out.
As the door clicked shut behind him, a strangled feeling surged into my throat, and I let out a single, choked cough.
Kit fixed me with a look of alarm. He lurched off the couch, catching my arm and hauling me on a speedy journey to the kitchen. He released me then, practically flinging me toward the woodblock counter.
“Charcoal. Now,” he barked, and cupped his hand to his mouth before he turned and staggered the few steps to the sink.
I’d barely begun to rifle the cabinets for the bottle of black powder Nora gave us before Kit was retching into the basin. Cringing, I pulled the vessel down and uncorked it. A pair of water cups were set out, and I dumped half the charcoal into one and the rest into the other. I took the cups in my hands and watched while the flakes fluttered to the bottom. When I spun around to where Kit bent over the sink, he was gagging again.
The pained, straining sounds made me wince as I crept up behind him to offer one of the cups. Kit paused, panting. Sweat pasted his curls to his forehead.
“Kit…” I began, but he waved me off.
“Take yours,” he insisted. His voice was hoarse.
The niggling hitch in my breath prompted me to tip back one of the glasses and consume its contents as quickly as possible. I walked back to set both cups on the dining table, then returned to Kit, who stood unsteady and shaking with dry heaves.
I took the rag draped over the faucet and pumped water into the basin. Another cough stirred my lungs, and I smothered it in the crook of my elbow. It felt more familiar than I wanted to admit. I pushed panic to the back of my mind as I washed the basin clean, then soaked the rag so I could put it to Kit’s forehead.
“It's okay,” I said, then repeated it, trying to convince us both. “It’s okay. Good that you're getting it out.”
I’d seen him sick before, when we were taking small doses of hemlock, but never this violently. Drool strung from his lips until he cleared his throat and spat into the sink. His arms braced against the counter’s edge, elbows locked, and his skin was a ghastly shade of white.
I daubed his face with the rag, clearing the sheen of sweat from his temples.
“Rinse your mouth,” he rasped.
I took one of the tin mugs from its hook under the cabinets and worked the pump again to fill it. Rinsing and spitting was difficult with Kit occupying most of the space at the sink, but I did as he told me until the last mouthful came out clear.
