1
Elyse
The starsshone brilliantly overhead, casting a smattering of light across the moonless sky. The crisp night air gave a gentle reprieve from the summer heat while crickets sang their endless melody, a quiet hymn in the darkness. It might have been romantic for the two lovers entangled on the forest floor—had one of them not been dead.
Elyse clutched Killian’s body against her chest as she knelt in the dirt. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with droplets of blood—blood that was not her own. She could taste Jaime’s death as a coppery bitterness on her tongue, could feel the bile rising in her throat. Her magic still roiled inside her veins, but vengeance had been replaced by a desperate, chaotic pleading.
Killian was dead. Gone. Stolen from her. Taken away by a monster, but not the monster she had been hunting.
She had blasted Jaime into a million, insignificant pieces. Quick and ruthless, a surge of magic she hadn’t known she was capable of. He should have suffered more. If Elyse could do it again, she would make him bleed out slowly, watching as his life drained away. She would peel his flesh layer by layer as he begged for a mercy that would not come. She would burn him, drown him, bury him, and dig him back up to do it all over again.
Such thoughts, however, brought her no pleasure. Flaying Jaime would do nothing to fix the true ache in her heart.
Ahead of her stood a simple cottage, a beacon of hope. Curtains covered the windows, but the soft pulse of candlelight penetrated the fabric, calling to Elyse in the dark.
“Grayson!”
Her cry erupted from her throat, raspy and pain-soaked. “Grayson!” she screamed again as her grip on Killian tightened. Her fingers coiled around his tunic, demanding both his body and soul to stay with her.
Hold on, she begged with clenched fists.I’m coming for you.
A small man emerged from the cottage, a flickering taper in his hand—Mr. Grayson, her oldest and kindest customer. Though he was well over one hundred years old, he hurried toward her with a nimbleness so at odds with his age. His shoulders were drawn with worry. His steps slowed to a halt as he neared Elyse.
“Oh,” he breathed as he stared down at her. “My dear.”
Grief etched his features, made haunting by the waning shadows cast by the single candle. Elyse saw her own anguish reflected there, a sight far too real for her to accept.
“Please help me,” she sobbed, not bothering to hide the tears staining her cheeks or the tremble in her voice. The time for dignity had long passed.
The old man’s brows drew together. Elyse waited for him to argue, to say there was nothing to be done. She held her breath and felt her power twisting in her stomach, yearning for a fight. But Mr. Grayson nodded and said, “Get him inside.”
Elyse tried to stand, tried to haul Killian up with her, but he was twice her size. He sagged in her grip, the weight of death pulling him toward the ground.
Mr. Grayson laid a frail hand on her shoulder. In a gentle tone devoid of his usual teasing, he reminded her, “Your magic, dear. Use it.”
She gaped at him, and then slowly nodded. Devil’s tail, her mind was a muddled mess. She’d been trying to carry Killian’s body with her mortal strength, completely forgetting that her magic could aid her.
She let go of Killian’s tunic with one hand. Her fingers twitched and flicked as she levitated his body—only enough to make him easier to move. She still gripped him fiercely with her other hand, terrified he might float away from her altogether, carried away on a breeze and never to be seen again.
Mr. Grayson rushed ahead of her and opened the door. Elyse stumbled over the threshold, her eyes barely taking in the space. The walls were a brilliant red, the furniture antiques. Hundreds of books populated the room, spreading from neat rows on mahogany shelves to jumbled stacks on the floor. In the corner sat an old cauldron, the remnants of a thousand potions coating its cast iron interior.
“Set him here,” Mr. Grayson called as he swept papers and a spellbook off the enormous kitchen table. Though the table was at least six feet long, there was only a single worn chair tucked beneath it.
Elyse guided Killian’s body to the table and laid it down carefully. Now that she was up and moving and thinking, a sort of detachment encapsulated her. Her mind shifted from grief to determination, distancing herself from her loss and instead focusing on the task at hand.
“Tell me what to do,” she demanded—though it sounded more like a plea.
Mr. Grayson peered down at Killian’s waxy skin, studying him. “How long has it been?”
“I…” she began, but her voice faltered. She didn’t know. It might have been minutes that she’d spent clinging to Killian’s body in the creek. It might have been half the night. “Less than an hour?” she guessed.
Mr. Grayson’s throat bobbed as he nodded. “The longer it’s been, the more difficult it becomes.” He let out a long, steady breath, the same determination Elyse held written on his face, but still mixed with the sorrow. “Let’s hope we’re not too late.”
He glanced toward a door off the kitchen, a subtle, unconscious movement. Elyse nearly shivered with grievous realization. That had to be where he kept her—his belated wife. Elyse pictured a young woman, skin pale and eyes closed, perfectly curled hair resting on a pillow, waiting for her husband to either succeed or give up.
All at once, she hated herself for every moment she’d spent drowning in sorrow. Every wasted second that might cost Killian his only chance at revival.
Instinctively, she grasped Killian’s hand only to find limp fingers. She held tight, wishing she had done something differently. Wishing it was her lying on the table, and not him. Wishing she’d never even met him and brought all this misfortune to his now-ended life.
