Page 25

It happens so quick that it blends together, the choked shout from Daxeel as the blade plunges so far into his neck that it scrapes his spine; the jerk of Eamon in my arms, the gargle of freshly pouring blood; the scream that rips out of me, hollow and strangled.

I can’t look.

I can’t bear to look at Daxeel, not as the gentle and surprised touch of his fingers graze mine, not as his hot blood soaks my hand—and not as he slips away from me, then thuds to the cobblestone.

My face twists.

The sob brews, long and silent, warped, aching too deep, too deep to ever survive.

Thump, thump, thump, thump… thump .

A breath of relief wheezes through me.

My eyes snap open.

I look down at Eamon in my arms.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump—

Not heartbeats.

Those thumps aren’t Eamon’s heartbeats…

I turn a watery frown on Daxeel.

He’s on his back, hands pressed to his bleeding neck, eyes fixed on me. There’s no rage in him, no hatred…

Thump, thump, thump…

I swerve around before those running bootsteps are upon me.

Heartbeats into steps, I look up at the face of the intruder, a face made of sharp knives.

Niamh.

I blink up at her, a cloud of tears mucking my sight.

But I see enough that I know she looks between Daxeel and Eamon, and in her hand is a single, small phial of black powder.

“This one,” I whimper, and her gaze swerves to me, “save this one, save this one!”

I rattle Eamon, and he is limp in my hold.

Niamh was sent by Mother. This is it, Eamon’s survival, his saviour.

If I hadn’t stabbed Daxeel… if I hadn’t given him a death blow… then Eamon would be dead in moments, no one coming to save him.

Mother meddled with fate, guided her here…

And with only enough to save one.

I can only save one…

She rushes for me, her black dress a ghost sweeping around her legs. She crouches, a frown on her mouth.

My breath is shuddering.

I set Eamon down, soft, and slip my arms from under him. He watches me, tears clinging to his lashes, but no anger in the way he looks at me, no disgust at what I did for him.

He beholds me.

The smile I give him is sad and twisted.

I swallow back a thickness lodged in my throat.

“He is gone.”

Silent, I shake my head—and I hold the frozen gaze of Eamon looking up at me.

“He is gone. The powder cannot save him.”

Again, I just shake my head.

I reach out and gently stroke a strand of his hair from his face. It tugs on a splattered spot of blood, but I peel it away and smooth it into place.

My watery smile wobbles as I drink in his vacant beauty. I am so consumed by him in the moment, fixated on only him, that I almost don’t understand the movement around me, others coming up from the parade to follow the scent of blood, Niamh lunging for Daxeel, the one still alive, and pouring the black powder into his wound.

I slump onto Eamon’s hard chest.

It doesn’t move beneath me, no rise and fall of breath. My face twists against his shirt—

And the scream that rips out of me splits the lane.

My hands are fisted into his blouse.

But Eamon doesn’t wake up.

Eamon doesn’t breathe.

He is dead.