"The foundations," Alaric wheezes, a spark of lucidity returning to his voice. "The old asylum... built on the ruins... of the monastery."
"We're under Hallowed Halls?"
"Maybe. The tunnels... go deep."
He tries to stand, but his legs give out. He collapses back against the brick wall, coughing wet, hacking sounds. "Can't," he gasps. "Legs... gone."
I crawl over to him. I touch his face. He is freezing. His core temperature is dropping critically. The wet clothes are killing us. The air down here is stagnant, slightly warmer than the windtunnel above, but the dampness sucks the heat right out of the marrow.
"We have to get dry," I say, panic rising in my throat.
"No wood," he mumbles. "No fire."
"We are the fire," I whisper, remembering the cabin.
I make a decision. It is desperate. It is primal. It is the only card I have left to play against the Reaper. "Take them off," I order, reaching for his belt.
"Elodie?"
"Your clothes, Alaric. Take them off. Now." I fumble with his buckle, my fingers stiff and clumsy. I unzip his jeans. I yank them down. I pull his wet shirt over his head, struggling with his dead weight. He doesn't fight me. He is too weak. I strip him down to his skin. Then I strip myself. The air hits my naked flesh like a lash, stealing my breath. I am shaking so hard my bones rattle.
"Come here," I command.
I straddle him. I press my chest against his. I wrap my legs around his waist. I pull his arms around me. We are two ice sculptures trying to remember how to melt. "Friction," I whisper against his frozen lips. "We need friction."
I start to move. I rub my hands up and down his back, generating heat. I rock against him. "Wake up, Alaric. Come on. Find the heat."
He groans. His body is slow to respond, his blood shunted to his vital organs, trying to keep his heart beating. "Cold," he murmurs. "So cold."
"I know. I'm here." I kiss him. My lips are numb, but I kiss him hard, trying to force my breath into his lungs, trying to spark theengine. "You want me, don't you? prove it. Stay alive and take me."
I grind my hips against his. Something flickers. A spark in the darkness. His hands tighten on my waist. Weakly at first, then with a hint of that familiar, bruising grip. "Elodie..."
"Yes. I'm here. Feel me." I guide him. He is half-soft, shriveled from the cold, but I don't care. I need the connection. I need the internal heat. I sink down on him. The sensation is shocking. Invasive. But it works. The biological imperative overrides the shutdown. His heart rate spikes. Blood rushes to the site of the stimulus. He hardens inside me.
"That's it," I sob, tears freezing on my cheeks. "Come back to me."
He starts to move. It’s not the dominant, rhythmic pounding of the glass house. It is a slow, desperate rocking. A struggle for life. "Alive," he rasps, burying his face in my neck, his teeth chattering against my skin. "You... feel... alive."
"We are alive," I vow. I move faster. I create the friction. I create the heat. Our skin warms where it touches. Sweat—cold, clammy sweat—begins to mix with the river water on our bodies. I claw at his back. He grips my hips, his fingers digging in, anchoring him to the earth.
In the pitch black, stripped of sight, stripped of civilization, we are just animals. Two wolves in a den, licking each other's wounds, sharing the last warmth of the universe. It isn't sexual. It is vital. It is the act of defying death with the very mechanism of life.
"Stay," I whisper, biting his shoulder, tasting the salt and the iron. "Stay with me."
He groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my chest. He thrusts up, hard, desperate. The heat blooms. It spreads from our joined bodies, radiating out to our frozen limbs. We chase the release not for pleasure, but for the endorphins. For the rush of blood that proves we haven't turned to stone.
When it comes, it is a shattering thing. I cry out, the sound echoing off the wet bricks. Alaric shudders violently, pouring himself into me, his body bowing like a tensioned wire before collapsing. We stay like that. Tangled. Naked. Breathing the same air. The darkness feels less heavy now. We generated a spark. And in the Underworld, a spark is everything.
We lie there for a long time. Alaric’s shivering has stopped. His skin feels warmer against mine. He is breathing steadily. "Elodie," he whispers. His voice is clearer. The delirium has receded.
"I'm here."
"You saved me again."
"I'm getting good at it," I murmur, resting my head on his chest. "Don't get used to it."
He chuckles, a dry rasp. His hand strokes my hair, tangled and wet. "Where are we?"
