“Don’t think like that, deary,” Mr. Grayson said, a knowing look in his eyes. His voice was soft, but it cut through the silence of the room and the roaring of Elyse’s mind. She met his gaze and found strength there. His hazy, wrinkled eyes shared her grief, but beneath that was hope.
With a nod, she surrendered herself to that belief.
Mr. Grayson left the room and returned with a rag, a bowl of water, and some bandages. “Clean his wound as best you can,” he instructed gently. “I’ll gather the components for the spell.”
Elyse didn’t hesitate. With the help of her magic, she set to work. She removed Killian’s shirt and rolled him onto his side so she could examine his wound. The gouge was only a few inches long, but it was deep, a cavity that penetrated his organs. Watery blood seeped from the cut, along with a putrid green liquid—the poison that had kept him from healing. It oozed down his back and pooled on the table in a sickening mixture.
Elyse steeled herself with an inhale. Her fingers moved carefully, lovingly, as she cleaned and dressed the wound, like she was arranging flowers in a bouquet. Not that she had much experience arranging flowers. She promised herself that if Killian returned to her, she would fill their lives with beautifulthings: fresh flowers, home-cooked meals, and stolen kisses in the night.
Her focus remained on Killian, even as Mr. Grayson began parceling ingredients into a bowl. The soft sound of the mortar and pestle was a steady backdrop while she dressed Killian’s wound. She had to wrap linens around his torso to keep the bandage in place, a feat she never would have been able to do without her magic.
Finally, she laid his body back down on the table and gently rested his arms at his sides. She stared at him for a moment, trying to imagine that he was merely sleeping, but it was impossible. The pallid skin, the rigidness of his body and the flat expression on his face—he didn’t even look like himself. This was nothing more than a husk, and the real Killian, her Killian, was somewhere in the aether, begging her to bring him back.
Mr. Grayson handed her a jar. Through the clear glass, she could see a powdery gray substance—ash.
“Spread this around the body,” he instructed.
In other circumstances, Elyse might have asked where the ashes had come from. Yet as she uncapped the jar and began to outline Killian’s body, she didn’t care who or what had burned to make the ashes, so long as they did their job.
One by one, Mr. Grayson spaced five heavy black crystals around the table. Each crystal was jagged and seemed to swallow the light completely. They looked to be hewn from the dungeons of Hell.
“Ready?” he asked as he studied their handiwork.
Elyse felt as though she might be ill. While they were preparing, she could cling to the hope in her heart that Killianwould return. Once they began the spell, though, that hope would be replaced by action—action that had an outcome, a success or a failure.
She would not accept failure.
She nodded her reply, too frightened by what might escape her mouth if she opened it.
Mr. Grayson moved a large bowl and its ingredients to the floor. The bowl was as black as the crystals, with symbols etched into its shallow basin. Elyse recognized the symbols as demonic, though she didn’t know their meaning. She stepped closer to the old man and watched over his shoulder as he carefully mixed and measured tonics and herbs into the bowl.
After dropping the final ingredient into the concoction, Mr. Grayson muttered something sharp and foreign, and the bowl was set ablaze. Vicious orange flames burned steadily, even as the ingredients festered into oblivion.
Mr. Grayson rose, abandoning the fire for a nearby cabinet. Elyse watched as he opened a small antiquated chest and procured something black and leather from within. As he turned back toward the firelight, she realized what it was: the gloves he had won at the auction. The ones that supposedly belonged to Death.
All of Elyse’s determination vanished instantly. Those gloves were his bargaining tool, his one opportunity to resurrect his wife.
She grasped his frail wrist. “The gloves—if you use them now, will you be able to later?” Her voice was hoarse, stricken with fear. She swallowed as she searched his face, awaiting his answer.
Mr. Grayson stared back at her with silvery, sorrow-filled eyes. She already knew what he was going to say.
“No,” he replied. “But it’s okay.” He offered a smile, one that masked his grief.
Elyse tightened her grip on his wrist. “No,” she breathed. “I can’t let you.”
As she spoke, it felt as though hands were clawing their way up her throat, trying their damnedest to grasp at her words and rein them back in.
Mr. Grayson had waited so long—nearly a hundred years—to be reunited with his wife. He deserved to see his prayers and hard work answered. And yet Elyse held her breath, hoping that the widower would insist on helping her, on giving up on his own dream of bringing his wife back to life.
She hated herself for it.
Mr. Grayson shifted, freeing his wrist from Elyse’s grasp. “Ms. Crenshaw,” he said, and there was no sadness in his voice, only golden determination. “For years, I have researched. I have studied and sacrificed and scavenged. I have made great progress—enough that I am confident I can bring your Killian back.” Again, his eyes flitted toward the door at the back of the room. “But I am still unable to bring back my Cordelia, and I fear that I may never be able to. She is too far gone, her thread to this world too frayed.”
Elyse parted her lips to protest, but Mr. Grayson continued.
“I believe that all my searching was not for Cordelia, but for him,” he said, nodding toward Killian’s lifeless body. “I believe I was meant to reach this point, to assist you. Whatever it is youare doing, your story is not yet over. You are meant to do more, and to do it together.”
Elyse closed her eyes to fight the sting of tears. Killian’s last words played in her mind.Bonded souls have a way of finding each other.
