But there’s nothing. No guards are stationed in the front yard, no osseri or cambions or Cursed waiting to shred us apart.
It’s empty.
BANGBANGBANG.
I step closer to the window, every footstep as light as I can make it, but not quiet enough. Ivan whirls toward me, mouth forming what I assume is a curse when he sees the direction I’m heading.He waves at me, mouth moving behind the barrier, likely yelling at me to get away from the window.
I ignore him and tip-toe closer. He hurries toward me and lunges, reaching for my hand.
But he’s too late.
I see who’s outside.
I push Ivan away from me and sprint toward the front door. Luca steps in my path, but I shove him out of the way and yank the door open.
Asmo. And Cally, limp in his arms.
Her chest rises and falls, but her eyelids are closed and entirely too still.
Asmo looks exhausted, nearly swaying on his feet. Dark stubble lines his chiseled jaw. His black hair, normally perfectly styled, falls just past his pointed ears in an unbrushed mess. Even though he seems ready to collapse, he looks fine. Unharmed.
Cally, on the other hand…My heart squeezes in my chest. Her cheekbones are sharp as shards of glass, eyes sunken into her skull. Her chestnut curls lay flat against one side of her head, matted and covered in gravel and dirt. The corset of her berry-red bridesmaid dress is crusted in dried blood, fresh blood leaking from a pulsing wound on her stomach.
The smell of rot, of death, radiates from her. She is too thin, too lifeless. Tears well in my eyes, but I wipe them away.
“Bring her inside,” Ivan says, gentle but firm. She doesn’t stir as he takes her from Asmo. I choke back more tears. She is so still.
Ivan helped all of us recover in the aftermath of the wedding. But he is not a true healer. And if Cally requires more than what Ivan can provide, we might be in trouble.
Ivan shuffles down the hallway, Cally’s head bobbing in his arms.
“Put her in my room,” Asmo says behind me.
Ivan lays her on Asmo’s bed, and tears well again. If I didn’t see the rise and fall of her chest, I would have assumed her dead. How much time does she have before that becomes our reality?
Ivan gets to work, hands roaming over Cally. He stops when he getsto the blood on her dress, and glances back at me. “I’m going to cut her dress to get to this wound. You might want to step out.”
I plant my feet. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She is laying here because of me. Whatever was done to her was because of me, and I will not shy away from the consequences.
But then Ivan peels the dress back and my stomach threatens to empty itself all over the floor.
The wound is raised, a lump of infection, with edges that are beginning to blacken. Blood and pus create a sickening pink that seeps from it. The veins surrounding the wound are bright pink streaks, disappearing behind the rest of the dress.
My stomach protests again. I clap my hand over my mouth and shove past Asmo, and stumble back outside. I pull fresh air into my lungs and fight the nausea.
Soft footsteps come from behind me, stopping only inches way.
“She’ll be okay,” Asmo whispers.
I take another deep breath, and a tear spills down my cheek. It breaks the damn. I cover my face as they come. Asmo pulls me to him and squeezes me against his chest.
Cally is alive. Cally is alive. Cally. Is. Alive.
And Asmo—Asmo is back. With me—not with his brother. Even so, another part of me is sending off warning bells. Three days is a long time to be gone, and I have no idea what happened during that time. I pull back, and my heart skips a beat as I look at him through my tears.
“Miss me?” Asmo asks, one corner of his mouth tugging upward into a crooked smile.
