Takes another.
Stumbles again.
And then he reaches for me, mouth gaping around a mouthful of smoke.
Sixty-Four
What’s wrong with him?I shout through the bond.
Morrgot’s second crow streaks across the bridge, slams into the one guiding me, then together, they morph into a wall of smoke that presses me backward.Turn around.
“Why?”
Turn, Fallon. Turn. Around.The gravity and vigor of his timbre are the only reasons I concede.And don’t look.
What’s happening to—A wet rip followed by a copious gush make my eyes squeeze in time with my throat. I pray the noise came from the humid grove.
You can turn.
I pivot slowly, scanning the night for Sewell. He’s no longer on the bridge, or on the opposite embankment.
Morrgot hovers beside me.Walk.
Shook and shaking, I put one foot in front of the other.What happened to him?
He must’ve touched the obsidian.
Must’ve? Weren’t you with him?
The grotto, within which my crow is buried, is carved in obsidian. I could only stay a handful of seconds at a time.
When my gaze slopes to the dense web of plants beneath the bridge, cotton-candy-like fingers press my chin up, forcing my attention upward, to the billowing cloud that is Morrgot.
Don’t.
I take Morrgot’s command to mean,Don’t look down.
Gliding my palms over the rope to support my jellied limbs, I inch across the bridge. When my fingertips meet something viscous and warm, I freeze, then jolt my hands off the guardrail.
Although Morrgot still has my chin in a vise, I incline my eyes. The night is dark but not dark enough to camouflage the crimson stain on my palm.
Blood.I swallow hard, jamming back the bile surging up my throat. Through clenched teeth, I mutter, “Why did you involve him, Morrgot?”
Because it was necessary.
I rear my head back, unhooking it from its perch.His death was necessary?
No, Fallon.Morrgot sounds angry.
Bronwen told me not to speak of the prophecy with anyone, and here he is, involving people.
He seethes through the bond.His death was a misfortune, one that will forever weigh on my conscience, but Bronwen insisted he needed to dig out my crow or you wouldn’t be able to free me in time.
I’m not that useless.
That’s not—A frustrated rumble pours through our unfortunate mind link as he snaps back into his crows. If he’d been a man, he probably would’ve had both hands buried in his hair, yanking at the roots. But he’s not a man; he’s an animal. A magical one, but not magical enough to preserve lives.
I half expect him to leave me to fend for myself on the bridge, but he stays close. After all, he has much to lose if something toxic pervades my blood.
