“Because of you.”
A chill froze down Finnian’s spine. The breath hitched in his throat as he shook his head. “That’s not true.”
“How would you know?” His younger self took a step, eyeing him with malicious intent. “You can hardly remember him.”
“It’s the curse. I—” Finnian’s palm came down on his chest where the mark throbbed. “He’s?—”
“A wrong that you willnevermake right.” His younger self stopped with a breath’s space between them, his voice grating against the buzzing in Finnian’s head.
“Iwillmake it right.”
“You break everyone you love.”
The words hacked through his chest. “No, I don’t.”
“Alke, Arran, Naia, Eleanor, Isla?—”
“No.” The lie burned his tongue.
Each one passed through his thoughts—every time he’d been on the receiving end of a painful look over something he’d said or done that had hurt them.
“Everett—”
“Stop!” Finnian shot out his arm and flames jumped from the fireplace and attacked his younger self. The blood-orange pyre devoured him, boiling skin and liquifying muscle down to the pearl-white bones of his face.
The gory hallucination dissipated and melted into vapor.
Finnian’s breaths were shallow as the flames withered out, revealing the empty space before him.
You break everyone you love.
His heart palpitated.
“No,no—I don’t.” His hands lifted into his hair, squeezing clumps in his fists. “I don’t break them. Idon’t—” He stumbled backwards, his weight too heavy on his unstable knees, and the backs of his shins smashed into the edge of the bed. He fell onto the cushion of the mattress.
Soft.
Eyelids stitched closed, he removed his hands from his hair and lowered them onto the satin material.
Cool to the touch.
Similar to the satin bed sheets in his old home.
The sense of touch was an anchor, and he used it to guide him back down from the hallucination.
What would I be doing if I were in Hollow City right now?
Triple shot espresso. Down it in a heartbeat.
Gods, I miss coffee.
The frantic march of his pulse slowed the more he reminisced about his old routine and the comfort of his potion room. He imagined sitting at his workbench, surrounded by the pungent aroma of herbs, lost in his own headspace, preoccupied with crafting the perfect dose of hemlock to inflict paralysis rather than death. The potion’s fame skyrocketed in the black market.
The unbearable hum of the curse had silenced. Relief rained throughout his brain. Through a deep breath, he peeled open his eyes and peered up at the ceiling.
Painted along the glossy black exterior were shimmering specks.
Was it a part of the obsidian crystalized into the wall?
