Page 134 of Winterveil

Nadiya jerked Giselle roughly forward. The door was almost within reach. But then, without warning, Giselle planted her feet, forcing Nadiya to a halt.

“Nadiya,” she cried, “you’re hurt. Please, you have to . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” Nadiya bit out.

“But—”

Nadiya tried to tug Giselle along again, but then she felt a sudden bolt of dizziness. Her vision blurred and she stumbled, falling forward onto her knees.

Giselle dropped to the ground beside her. The blood was soaking her dress, turning the silk an even darker black. Carefully, Giselle peeled up the fabric, exposing the wound. The bullet hadn’t grazed her; it had gone straight through and buried itself in her thigh.

“No,” Giselle whispered. “No, no, no—”

Nadiya stared down at the blood pooling on the rooftop. Even the wind couldn’t disperse the scent of it: acid and heavy. And familiar. Memories flowered up. Her father, splayed on the floor, clutching his chest, crying weakly, Nadiya, help me.

She blinked and the memory dissipated. But her eyes were wet.

Giselle was pressing down on the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding. Her fingers were shaking and blood still poured from the gaps between them.

“It’s all right,” said Nadiya. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded frail and faraway. “Giselle, it’s okay.”

Giselle’s head snapped up, gaze flashing. “What are you talking about?” she said, almost angrily. “Nadiya—”

“It’s all right,” Nadiya repeated. “I can’t feel it. I can’t feel any of it.”

Giselle just stared at her, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“I’ve never been able to.” More memories flooded back. So many doctor’s offices, so many needles in her arm. Lab results printed on slippery coils of paper. White-gloved hands prodding her. What about this? Or this? Perplexing diagnoses given and then recanted. Nadiya remembered the quivering of her mother’s chin as one doctor finally uttered the words degenerative condition. Her father had gripped his cross.

Nadiya let the memory fade and refocused her gaze on Giselle. Voice more even now, she said, “I can’t feel any pain. I’ve never been able to. It’s why I was able to get away that night.”

That night. The shadows of strange men dancing on the walls. Her father’s blood flowing in rivulets. The bullet like a clap of thunder. And Nadiya—she hadn’t knelt there, hadn’t held her father’s hand as he died. She had run.

Like a coward, she had run. She was too small, too quick, and the men couldn’t catch her. She hadn’t even noticed the blood pouring from beneath her nightgown until she was locked inside her closet, knees pulled to her chest, head buried between them. Vaguely, Nadiya recalled that she had prayed.

That bullet had only grazed her, but the blood loss had been so great that she would have died. Should have died. She should have fallen to the ground there beside her father, and then she could have comforted him, in his final moments. But because she hadn’t felt it, she had run.

Like a coward.

Slowly, Nadiya peeled back the sticky fabric of her dress. The white mass of scar tissue on her abdomen shone in the dying evening light.

“So you understand now,” Nadiya said. She tasted copper on her tongue. “I’m not brave. I never have been.”

Giselle’s lips parted. Her brow was still furrowed. And then an incandescent glow descended over her face, transforming its features. Her gaze turned fierce.

She said, “I love you.”

Nadiya felt the wetness of the tear trickling down her cheeks, but not its warmth. The truth. At last, the truth. Her chest was strangely light. If she was going to die, at least she would die with someone who knew her—knew all of her—and loved her anyway.

Chane’s guards dropped onto the roof. Their guns were still drawn. Nadiya’s had slipped out of her blood-slicked hand. The hem of Giselle’s white dress was drenched in red.

One of the guards jerked Giselle roughly to her feet. Two more knelt at Nadiya’s side. They each slid an arm beneath her body and, together, they lifted her. It was as if she weighed nothing at all.

Static crackled through the radio on the guard’s chest. “Got them?”

“Yeah,” the guard replied. “We got them.”

“Where are Julian and Klaudia?” Giselle demanded, voice tremulous.