That’s when I understand. He’s not talking to me. He’s talking to his killer. It’s never happened like this for me before. I’ve never been allowed to see or hear or feel anything before the attack and death occur.
Another crack rips through the air like a gunshot. More pain licks over my chest and side this time.
How dare you! Councilor Alride’s uninjured hand shoots into the air and I can feel the magic building inside him, feel him gathering it from the world around him.
There’s a flash of light, and then nothing. No pain. No sound. No fear. Just an utter blankness that doesn’t make sense. In the back of my head, there’s a voice calling to me, but I can’t reach it, can’t hear it. It’s distracting, annoying, so I shut it out. Then I turn into the black.
I push through the darkness, searching for Alride. Searching for anything that might tell me what happened to him. How a Councilor of his power was so completely overwhelmed. And by whom?
For a long time, there’s nothing. Just darkness. And then—shooting pain. In my ribs. Again and again and again.
I grab onto the sensory memory, hold it tight to my chest even as the pain spreads through me. I have to see, have to know. . . . It’s a new compulsion, one that grows stronger with each passing moment.
Metal. Sharp and cold and thin, so thin, as it presses against my jugular. A quick nick of pain, then blood—warm and liquid—welling above my collarbone. More warmth. A finger catching it, smearing it a little. The finger disappears. I hear the muted sounds of someone sucking.
My whole body tightens in revulsion, in rejection. I try to shove my attacker away, but my hands won’t work. No one licks my blood, takes my blood, without my permission.
Laughter—a little wicked, a little mocking—washes over me. How does it feel, Viktor? How do you like being on the other side of the game?
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Tsk. Tsk. I’ve never been very fond of lies.
Another cut. This one a little deeper. It stings more, bleeds more. I can feel the blood leaking slowly down my chest. The finger is back, playing in it. No, not a finger. A tongue. There’s a mouth on my chest—lips running over the bloody trail, tongue licking it up drop by drop by drop.
I yell for help. No sound assaults my ears, but I can feel the scream in the twinging of my vocal cords and the sudden hoarseness of my throat.
No need to panic. The voice is low, a whisper. I try to tell if it’s a man or a woman, try to see the face it belongs to, but there’s nothing there. Just the voice, just the tongue, just the pain.
More metal, more cold. Not a knife this time. Handcuffs around my wrists. No, not handcuffs. This is thicker, tighter. Two inches thick, it wraps around my wrist. Squeezes so tightly that it pinches the thin layer of flesh that rests right over my bones.
What are you doing? I ask again. My voice is no longer steady, my confidence—in myself and my abilities—shaken. No, not me. Viktor. This is all happening to Viktor, I remind myself.
It’s strange, muddled. Hard—so hard—to tell the difference now.
I’m moving, being pulled up, slowly, slowly. There’s grunting, a mocking laugh. A breathless admonition for me—for Viktor—to lose weight. A promise to help him with that.
And then I’m hanging, my arms stretched wide above my head. I don’t understand. I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?
No answer now. No sound at all but the harsh breathing of physical exertion. I reach for my magic. I mutter an incantation so old it has been forgotten by nearly everyone. I need my hands for it to work well, but I still have my fingers. Maybe that’s enough—
Pain. Overwhelming, this time. My entire system is overloaded with it until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but endure. Endure. Endure.
Finally, it ends.
I kick out with my feet, hit something hard but human. A murmured curse, than another kiss of the knife. This time from my neck to my belly button, slicing my shirt to ribbons and digging a furrow into my flesh as well.
Another swipe of the hand—I try to focus on it, but I can’t get a picture. It’s like the killer is somehow blocking any reception of him or her that I might get.
Strangely muffled voice.
No image of him to lock onto.
Nothing but the pain he gives me. Viktor. Me.
The confusion grows worse.
More words. Hard to hear. Harder to focus on. Like I’m underwater and everything is muffled, muted. I know the words are important—I can sense it if nothing else and strain, strain, to make something out.
For just a second the spell slips and I hear three words: Close doesn’t count. Then everything grows muffled again and I’m out of luck.