Philippa nods to Gil, who opens the lid of the box he’s carrying. Philippa lifts out a curved silver dagger and hands it to Raoul. “Perform the first death.”
“No.” I twist and buck against the chains, panic thrilling through my body. “No, Raoul, don’t do this. Fight it, for fuck’s sake. Fighther.”
But his fingers close mechanically around the hilt, and he walks forward with wooden steps. Looking into his eyes, I can see that he’s dying with the agony of what he’s being forced to do. She’s not just killing me—she’s killing him, too.
His face is a mask of stricken anguish. His eyes drop to my chest, and he sets the tip of the knife against my left breast.
“Raoul, look at me,” I whisper frantically. “You have to delay this somehow. Erik is going to come save us, you know he will. Please…please just wait, Raoul. Don’t, please, don’t…”
His hand, his arm, his whole body is shaking, and a smothered groan grates through his chest, like a stone being dragged over his ribs from the inside. The knife pushes through the fabric of my dress and pierces the first layer of my skin, a prick of blood-red pain.
My lips tremble, and my eyes fill with tears until I can barely see him. “It’s all right. I know you’re trying. Please—”
I snatch a pained breath as the knife sinks deeper, scraping against the left edge of my breastbone. Raoul angles it and pushes harder. It’s the most horrific sensation as the blade slowly cleaves my skin, viscera, and tendons, then pierces the thumping muscle of my first heart, the one I was born with.
If it’s damaged, my body can repair it, thanks to the second,smaller heart situated behind my right lung. I can survive being stabbed like this.
But I can’t regrow my head. If Raoul goes that far, the damage will be irreversible.
My cheeks are burning, wet with tears. “Raoul, I need you to try harder. For me. For him.”
“Deeper,” says Philippa, and Raoul shoves against the hilt of the knife.
I choke, feeling the cascade of adrenaline and panic as my body reacts to this cataclysmic threat. When the first heart slows and stutters, my second heartbeat increases to a frenzied pace. My fangs emerge from my gaping jaws, and the crowd utters a collective exclamation of interest and horror.
Raoul jerks the dagger out of my chest. His fingers uncurl from the hilt, and it falls to the floor.
Another shifter walks forward, carrying an ax—yes, a fucking ax—just as ornate as the ceremonial box Gil is holding. She hands it to Raoul, then withdraws.
“Now the head, Raoul,” commands Philippa. “Cut it off.”
I can see his pupils, blown so wide his green eyes are nearly black. They widen a little more when she speaks to him.
I struggle for control, for words. Blood spills over my lower lip as I force my voice to work, just one more time. I won’t waste precious seconds pleading for the mercy he can’t give me. There’s something more important I need to say.
“Don’t hate yourself for this. I love you.”
At my words, Raoul’s pupils contract slightly. He stands motionless, gripping the ax.
“Now, Raoul!” orders Philippa.
Through blood and fangs, I speak a line from the lyrics he wrote—the language of his soul poured into music. “Love is a cruel angel, a thorny rose that blooms and bleeds in this rotten void, that whispers relentless hope into the wicked universe.”
The black dot in the center of Raoul’s iris shrinks, and the band of pale green widens suddenly, gloriously.
He whirls and slings the ax at his sister.
One second, the ax is spinning toward her, and the next she’s a huge white wolf, leaping aside out of harm’s way, shadows curling and melting around her while the ax clangs against the floor.
Raoul reaches for my chained hands, but before he can attempt to free me, my restraints spring open of their own accord.
Magic like that can only mean one thing.
The god of death and his ghosts have arrived.
I shake off my chains and stumble forward, but my primary heart still isn’t working. Raoul catches me in his arms as I collapse.
“Christine.” He’s crying, kissing my face with heartbroken penitence. “Christine, precious, I’m so sorry—”
