My stomach curdles from the pungent aroma of what I’m doing. Cauldron, I’m glad I can’t see it. “Is Amaury hot, El?”
“I think so?” he replies.
“Ugh,” Sofiya mutters. “That so means he’s not.Ugh.”
“Describe him,” I tell Elio, as I start on the bone.
“Oh my Gods. Tell me it’s almost over. Tell me you extracted the powder,” she says through harsh pants.
“El…” I prompt him gently. “Describe Amaury.”
“He’s brown-haired! Very talented.”
“Brown-haired and very talented?” she repeats. “Definitely means he’s ugly.”
“No, he’s, um…” As Elio searches for better descriptors, her bone snaps.
She screams. And then she goes so quiet that I draw back my hands. Her lids are clasped. Her lips parted. Her head dangling off the edge of the pouf.
Elio stares, throat bobbing.
“I had no choice,” I whisper.
He kneels, cradling her face. “I know.”
After easing her head back onto the pouf, he sweeps a fiery lock from her damp forehead. Sweetness personified, that one.
One glance at the infected part of Sofiya’s leg increases my queasiness so briskly that my vision fragments. I concentrate on my breathing until my stomach settles anew.
Get yourself together, Isla. The carnival of horror has just started spinning.I’m not sure why I’m expecting my pep talk to ease my stomach’s revolt. If anything, anticipating there will be more to come causes it to riot further.
My fingers tremble as I attempt a healing sigil on Sofiya’s stump. Like always, I fail. Anger and frustration make thetremors in my hands turn so brisk that I don’t even attempt a second sigil.
“Ice her stump,” I instruct Elio as I wipe my hands on my dress before digging two fingers into her neck. When I feel her pulse flutter, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Speak to me, mo khráach.My father’s voice is soft, as though he senses my heart requires gentleness.
I stand, then drag open a drawer and grab a leather belt with which I strangle the top of her thigh like Shoshair taught me. Tourniquet in place, I check her pulse again. Still beating. Still alive.
“I’m going to go find Konstantin. Please, please,pleasestay here with her.”
He nods.
“The combination to the safe is eleven, sixty, fourteen. Take note of any mutinous chatter. Also…take this. It’s iron.” I lay Ksenia’s dagger beside him. “I’m so sorry to leave you.”
“Go save your man.”
Moisture pinches my eyes. “I love you, Elio Riccio Genovese.”
“Love you more.” He must sense my hesitation to abandon him, because he adds, “Go! I’ve got everything under control.”
With a swallow, I dissolve and whoosh down my corridor and into my bedchamber. After pocketing my new dagger, I consider the skylight—the most direct path to the Throne Room—but the raised voices in the hallway redirect my trajectory. The rebels might not be able to cross the wards. Nevertheless, they’re too near Elio for comfort.
Holding on tight to my ghostly form, I funnel through one of the bullet holes in my door and arrow toward the vaulted ceiling before toughening into my Crow.
Four males are clustered around my doorway, gun in hand, speaking with the rough accent of townsfolk. I drop low, talonsspread. I cage two heads and pluck them off with a hushed squelch. The other two meet the same fate.
Lightning lattices the hallway, matching the vengeful blaze enflaming my heart.
