I turn around, and my four fated mates are standing there in a row, watching me.
Beaufort. Dray. Thorne. Fox.
“Briony,” Fox says. “There are people here who need our help.”
I jolt. I’d almost forgotten that. But as I scan the destruction, I see he’s right. I may not have been able to save Clare, but there are others I can help. Others I can heal.
I nod, and Fox calls loudly to the gathered people: “Bring the most injured here to the center of the square, and we will heal them.”
Somehow, I reach deep inside myself and find the strength and the magic to help these people. We work solidly, without pause, healing wounds, stitching flesh back together, mending broken bones. I’m so absorbed in the work that I forget, for just a moment, the devastation lurking in my heart. I forget the threat lingering in the air. The chance more demons might come. The chance the palace now knows our location and the elite guards might appear any moment.
I forget all of that and focus on healing the people around me.
As we work, the people of Slate Quarter pile the dead, sweep up broken wood and glass, splinters of timber, fragments of brick. They wash and scrub the cobblestones clean of blood and carry the bodies away, taking them home to their families.
Finally, when I’ve healed the final scratch, I stagger to my feet and find Fly hovering in the background. His face is wet, drained from shock. His hands wring the hem of his coat over and over again.
I rush to him and fling my arms around him. He stands like a statue, tears streaming down his face.
“Oh, Fly,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save her.”
My usually sharp-witted friend has nothing to say.
I look to the Professor for help.
“Let’s get him back to my house,” Fox says. “Get some alcohol in him. He needs it for the shock.”
I wrap my arm through Fly’s and urge him to walk, but he digs in his heels.
“Cl-Cl-Clare,” he stutters.
I close my eyes as the pain stabs through me again. Then I look up at Fox.
“What about Clare?” I ask.
“They’ve already taken her to the house,” he says. “Mom’s cleaning her up.”
And this time, I can’t stop it.
I wrench my arm away from Fly, double over, and retch onto the freshly cleaned cobblestones. Someone pulls my hair back. Another rubs circles over my back. When it passes, I manage to stand again.
I see Dray with his arm around Fly, leading him away through the streets, Fox showing them the way. Beaufort and Thorne wrap their arms around me, and we follow them through the dark streets back to Tudor’s home.
And I can’t quite believe that only this morning – only this morning! – we were all stepping out together.
All of us.
Allof us.
And now Clare is gone.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dray
Fly’s shaking like a leaf on a tree in a thunderstorm, his face a mess of tears and snot and blubber. I walk him to the cold fireplace, nudging the old dog gently out of the way before lighting a pile of logs with a flick of my fingers. Then I find an old blanket that I wrap around his shoulders.
“Just sit here a minute, okay?” I tell him. “Get warm. You’re in shock. You’re gonna be okay.”
