Skin that has gone numb, for I don’t feel the exploratory brush of my fingers as they poke around the oozing depression.
The wagon goes dark. Then bright. Then dim.
When I blink next, I’m lying on my back, gazing at the ceiling, at the mural that used to be blue with clouds, but that is now black with soot.
Actually, a patch of color remains—one that stretches from me to Izolda. Shoshair would find meaning in the stroke of blue, given that she lives for symbolism. How I wish she were next to me, so that she could infuse the noxious air with her fragrance of lemons and herbs, and my heart with her unfaltering warmth.
I wish my mother were there, too, so that I could curl up onto her lap, even though so little of me fits there anymore.
I think of my unborn brother, whom I cannot wait to meet.
Of my father and grandfather, who are on their way.
Of Naeva, who will surely have plenty to say about my half-baked scheme.
Of Elio stuck in my closet with a personality-heavy Faerie—no, not stuck…safe.
I think of Lachlano.Are you still locked in your body, Lach? Does it hurt?
I try to pick my hand up from where it rests at my hip, but my arm…it feels like the entire train has collapsed over it. Over the whole of me.
Like I’m sinking into the rubble of our battle.
Drowning.
What fate should I give my sister?That voice. That captivating tenor.
It brings me back to the here and now, to him.
My lashes flutter, clashing against the mounting tide of oblivion. I blink at Konstantin’s back, a tapestry of honed muscle, fading bruises, and skin that glows white in the entrenching obscurity.
My moon.
My beacon.
My true north.
Whatever brings you peace, my love.My reply slides into the bond just as another voice nudges my temples—Dádhi’s.
He tells me that he’s almost there. That Lachlano is awake and already on his way to me. That Elio and Sofiya—of all people—managed to extract the tranquilizers. That they’re working on retrieving the ones inside Aodhan’s body. His words must be a figment of my imagination.
A comforting, chemical reaction of my brain meant to reassure me that the pellet won’t keep me down.
May I be wrong.
May it be real.
May…
54
KONSTANTIN
As Ksenia takes in the carnage and understands that she’s lost, I ask, “Was it worth it?”
“Fighting for what you believe in is always worth it.” Her eyes rove over Vasily’s unrecognizable form, then beyond him at Isla, whose wisdom has given my appetite for retribution pause.
Whatever brings you peace…
