“ASHERTON!” she screamed.
What if he had been pulled under by the furious current and lost to the river forever? She turned round and round, spitting filthy water as she bobbed, her skin tearing onsubmerged branches until the river carried her around a bend and tossed her against the bank. Shivering, her chest heavy, she crawled ashore.
With chattering teeth and aching muscles, Magdala stumbled to her feet. The crowd had dispersed. Zephyr was gone. She was alone.
Magdala hunched for an agonizing moment in the suddenly silent night, building the courage to start downstream and look for Asherton. She would look until daybreak, until night fell again, until the next sunrise. She would look and look and look until her legs gave out, even if all she found was a body to mourn over.
As she turned away from the river, the water broke and Zephyr splashed onto the muddy grass. He was half man, half nix, his hands webbed and mottled with blue scales. And in his arms, he held a limp form.
Magdala’s throat closed.
Like a father taking a sleeping child to bed, Zephyr laid Asherton tenderly on the grass and bent over him. “His heart is beating, but he is not breathing,” he croaked.
“No.” It came out half sob, half shriek. Magdala forgot about Zephyr’s horrible powers and lurched forward, throwing herself on Asherton’s chest.
“Ash!” She clutched his face between her hands. “Look at me. Ash, look at me!”
Zephyr was tearing open Asherton’s shirt, his webbed fingers clumsy.
“Why isn’t he breathing?” she demanded, insanely angry at Zephyr. “Make him breathe!”
Tight-lipped and silent, Zephyr laid his open hand on Asherton’s chest and murmured, “Breathe for me, child. Come now. Don’t break an old man’s heart.” Slowly, he moved his hand in a circular motion over Asherton’s chest.
“W…what are you doing?” Magdala stammered.
“Breathe for me, child,” Zephyr said through gritted teeth. He lifted Asherton’s shoulders and cradled him, still moving his hand in that strange circle. “Please, Ash. Please, please …” He bit back a sob. “I could have saved you first. Why would you not allow me to save you?”
Hot tears stung Magdala’s eyes. Why hadn’t Asherton let Zephyr save him first? Kings don’t sacrifice themselves for their bodyguards. What was her purpose if he would not let her protect him?
“Curse both of you,” Zephyr muttered. “And your stupid, headstrong … come, Ash, breathe!” He shook him. “BREATHE!”
Water bubbled on Asherton’s chest, only droplets at first, but they seemed to be surfacing from beneath his skin, drawn upward by Zephyr’s hand. Magdala leaned forward, tracking the slide and skim of webbed fingers. “Nearly there,” Zephyr said. “A little more.”
Was he drawing the water out of Asherton’s lungs? Magdala wasn’t sure, but it lit a spark of hope in her heart. Her vision narrowed—in all the world, there was just Asherton’s still body and the water pooling beneath Zephyr’s palm, so she didn’t notice the boots squelching on wet sand until the shotfire barrel touched the base of Zephyr’s neck.
Huxley stood over them, pale and wheezing.
“Put him down,” Huxley ordered.
Zephyr twitched his shoulder, like the shotfire was an irritating gnat, and held tighter to Asherton.
Huxley’s finger flexed on the trigger and Magdala’s vision washed red.
Before she understood what she was doing, Magdala was on her feet, her arms outstretched. She dove on Huxley, her hands closing around his throat.
Huxley’s eyes widened with terror. “Magdala, no!” he shrilled.
There was a spark and a flash, then a crack that made her ears ring. Something burned her cheek, but she barely noticed. She pushed him to the ground, then flipped him onto his stomach and straddled him.
Magdala’s hands moved without permission, like they were independent instruments of death. With her left hand, she gripped Huxley’s jaw, and with her right, she held his forehead. He screamed through gritted teeth. Later, she realized that she’d meant to snap his neck, but in that moment, she had no sense of self, only rage and grief and the frantic, mindless energy they leeched into her.
Behind her, Zephyr wailed, “BREATHE, ASH!”
Magdala paused, and Huxley wriggled out from under her, blubbering, “Don’t kill me, Magdala! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“You killed him!” She caught the front of his shirt and pulled him close—moonlight shone in his dilated pupils, mucus dripped off his quivering lip. Pathetic. Like a deer caught by a wolf. Magdala relished her power, that stonemason’s strength that drew him to her all those years ago. She could end his life so quickly and quietly, he wouldn’t have time to shriek—but she wanted him to suffer. She wanted him to feel Asherton’s pain and his despair. She wanted him to know the horror of water filling his lungs, of his throat closing, and the current dragging him into hell.
Magdala planted her hand on the back of Huxley’s neck and slammed him to the ground, then pushed his head into the river. .
