Page 48

I’m right to be paranoid when Sitri returns only half an hour later. A tendril of nervousness pulses through me in regards to Vera and I’s conversation, but his expression is somber as he says, “I’m sorry, pet, it turns out I have to go.”

My disappointment is thick. Being in the kitchens is a much-needed reprieve, and I didn’t even get an hour down here.

“I’m sorry,” he says again when he sees my disappointment.

He leads me back to his chambers and lingers for a brief moment, like there’s something he wants to say before he turns and filters out the door without a word.

The day is long, listless, and lonely. I keep thinking about what Vera had said. You can’t let fear stop you from living. I adamantly hope Sitri will return in time to at least go eat in the kitchens for dinner. That hope is vanquished when Vera brings up my plate. We hold a brief conversation through the door, and then I retreat back to Sitri’s bed and continue reading in the grimoire, currently, working through a list of magical creatures.

It’s only a short while later that I finally hear Sitri’s footsteps coming down the hallway. The door opens and shuts. Something about his movements sounds unusual to me. “Sitri?” There’s no answer, and my heart trills.

I creep into the living area and halt in my path when I see the way he’s bracing himself against the table, breathing labored. “S-sitri?”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn to face me. He holds himself up with one white-knuckled hand while the other claws at his neck. He manages to unfasten his cloak, and it falls to the floor with a thump, revealing a side drenched in blood.

For a moment, I’m rooted to the spot, staring at the large red stain blossoming over his white tunic, and then I’m moving, sprinting to him. He fumbles one-handed with the buttons of his shirt, and I bat his hand away and tear the shirt open. He sways slightly. His other hand drops to the table on the other side of me, caging me in.

I cleave his shirt open, eyes immediately locking on the gaping puncture just below his ribcage. Blood gushes. I press my hand over it. My eyes dart up to his face and back to the blood trickling past my fingers. “Can’t you seal it?”

He shakes his head, his face growing even paler as the blood sifts behind his skin. My own movements are panicked and jerky as I yank his shirt down his shoulders and wrap it around the wound. He grunts as I lug it tight.

I pause, thoughts scattered. “Tell me what to do.”

He nods his head in the direction of his shelf. “Bloodbloom—“

“For blood loss,” I finish, already dipping under his arm to grab it from the shelf. He barely manages to stay upright as he draws a sip. “Now what?”

“I…” he trails off, his eyes narrowing as they visibly glaze over.

“Sitri!”

His eyes flash wide, pupils pinning as he strains to focus. “I need to brew Leaf of Moly.”

“Are you insane? You can’t brew anything right now. You need help!”

He shakes his head. “No…jus’ gimme’ a momen’ an’…I’ll…” he trails off again.

I make toward the door. I don’t know why it’s a surprise to me when I find it sealed shut. Spinning on my heel, my voice is stern as I demand, “Unlock the door.” His head sags forward as he sighs. “Sitri! Unlock—this—goddamn—door—right now!”

He turns his head, bleary eyes meeting mine in a moment of hesitation. “Go straight to Vera. Don’t bring anyone else.”

I nod eagerly.

“If Vera can’t…t-tell her to fetch Delyah. Not the healer, pet, this is important.”

“I swear!” I rock back and forth on my heels as adrenaline courses through my body, preparing me to run.

He nods once and lifts a hand. His fingers twitch a few times before his hand falls limp, and his eyes flash milky white as they roll to the back of his head. I dash forward with a curse, barely making it in time. My body falters under his heavy weight, nails digging into his shoulders. He ends up thumping to the floor regardless, although more gently than if he’d fallen outright.

With a strained heave, I position him on his back and place a trembling hand under his nose. My relief is knee wobbling when warm breaths waft against the back of my hand. With a final reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, I scramble to the door and wrench at the knob.

Locked.

It’s still locked.

“You didn’t unlock the door,” I mutter. I throw myself to the floor beside him, shaking at his shoulders. “You didn’t unlock the door!” I cry. I pry open an eyelid to stare into the white of his eye.

The shamir. The shamir can break through magical barriers. I fly over to the chest and pull out the first blade I find indiscriminately before scurrying back to the shelf to locate the shamir.

Where is it? I know it was right here. I check every vial, and my stomach sinks. I check them again. It’s not here. He got rid of it. He actually got rid of it. “You stupid bastard!” I sob. “I don’t know how to fix you!”

Tears cloud my vision, and for a moment, I lose myself to the expanding blackness. He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and I’ll be trapped in here with his corpse.

“Div!” I scream. “Div!” He’s not here. I let him out earlier in the day. And Vera’s already brought up my dinner plate so she won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Blood continues to seep across the shirt I tied over his abdomen, making a mockery of my attempt to help him. He’ll be long dead by tomorrow morning.

I heave one breath and the next letting them shudder out of me like a rusted tap. I have to think. Think .

I need to stop the bleeding. I scramble to my chest, the meager amount of items that I own, scavenging until I find the sewing supplies I’d been so disdainful to receive. A mirthless laugh bubbles out of me. Coming in handy after all.

I locate the vial of antiseptic. My fingers tremble so badly I can’t manage to thread the needle. The dāemon pangs, harder, faster, and expels, putting a good chip in the corner of the chest holding the knives. He’s going to bleed out because I can’t thread a needle. The next attempt finally proves successful and the sound that spills out of me is both a sob and a cry of joy.

I unwrap the wound, hoping it’s not a dire mistake as blood seeps and pools onto the floor below him. So much blood. The sight of it has a visceral effect on me. My head turns light and fuzzy, and my vision darkens around the edges. No . I slap at my face. No . Stay with it. The antiseptic fizzles as I pour a generous amount over the wound and then the needle. No time to hesitate, I stab the needle into his skin, wincing and checking his face for a reaction.

Nothing.

The needle slides in with little resistance, and I pull the thread through. I sew the wound closed, lugging the seams tight to cover the exposed muscle below.

Once done, I careen back onto my knees to survey my work. Sloppy, but I successfully stopped the bleeding. I wipe my bloody hands against my dress before laying a hand across his forehead. His skin is cold, clammy under my touch. “Don’t die you fucking bastard.”

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if he took more bloodbloom? I study the pallor of his skin for a moment more and find resolve. Will he even be able to swallow anything in his state of unconsciousness? Am I going to choke him to death if I try?

Lifting his head with one hand, I pry his mouth open with the other, whispering apologies to his lifeless form. I pour a small amount of the potion into his mouth. “Please, I need you to swallow this.” It’s more of a prayer than an instruction to his unconscious form.

Disappointingly, some of the potion dribbles out the side of his mouth but then he coughs, throat bobbing. He’s taken some of it.

I repeat that process three more times, and by the end of it, the smallest amount of color returns to his face.

Pushing back to my feet, I look around the room vacantly waiting for instructions to pop up in front of my face. Sitri said he needed to brew…Leaf of Moly. I don’t even know what that is. I sprint to the bedroom and scribble Leaf of Moly into the grimoire.

A long and complicated recipe appears across the pages. Leaf of Moly, antidote to attor. I draw the symbol to empty the pages and then scrawl attor. Attor, derived from the plant Oleander of the dogbane family native to the lands of Croatoa gained notoriety during the War of Boros. Harvested from the forest of Firewood, Croatoans were infamous for envenoming their weapons with the attor. Widely believed it was the attor that ultimately resulted in their success in the War of Boros. The attor is a colorless, odorless liquid which makes it virtually undetectable when mixed with food or drink. Rumored to have brought forth the death of King Lysander, healers desperately sought to minimize the attor's devastating effects and in 1932 Galen of line Anubis successfully concocted a viable antidote. Attor was ultimately banned by the council in 1943. Upon ingestion or direct exposure to the bloodstream, the effects of the attor can manifest within a remarkably short time period. Victims typically begin exhibiting symptoms within as little as minutes. Symptoms generally include dizziness, nausea and weakness but it’s the insidious degradation the attor imposes on a victim's magic that ultimately results in their demise. The attor gradually deploys magic wasting upon the victim until they succumb to unconsciousness with death inevitably following within six hours unless the antidote is administered. Victims often appear peaceful in death, with no outward signs of struggle or distress, making it a favored weapon among assassins.

The book trembles so hard in my hands, I can no longer make out the words. I snap it shut, set it on the bed, turn around, and scrub my face.

He’s still going to die.