Ice Country(88)

The blood pours out but it’s nothing, a flesh wound, nothing compared to the knife embedded in my sister’s back. The knife that’s killing her while I continue to waste time with the king.

I leap back, hardening my jaw at the smile on Goff’s face. He moves in, still smiling, gaining confidence.

But when he slashes again, I’m ready, letting the knife slide past me even as I grab his arm, twist it, wrench it in an unnatural way that leaves the king screaming out as his bones snap.

Following through, I crush a forearm into his skull, aiming for the same spot I hit him before, feeling him rock back under the force of the blow. I land on top of him, punching with all my might, swinging and swinging, blood misting in my face as his nose explodes, his lips crack open, still swinging, fists hitting the face of pure evil, not ready to stop, not wanting to stop, but remembering, remembering…

Jolie.

It can’t wait any longer. I have to get back to her, but first Goff has to die.

His knife lies discarded on the floor. I reach for it, grab it.

I’ve never killed before, but this is a good place to start.

I raise the knife just as there’s a final, stone-crushing THUD! and the door crashes open.





~~~





I whirl around, knife still raised, ready, so ready, to fight them all. A hundred men couldn’t stop me when I’m this close to saving her.

My arm drops when I see her.

Skye.

Blood-spattered and fierce-eyed and here. The bodies of dozens of guards are scattered and broken on the floor behind her. She came. She came for me—for us. For Jolie and me.

She looks at me, at the king, at Jolie’s body, taking it all in.

The king groans and I turn back. One of his eyes is slitted open and he’s staring at me. His hand lifts, slides toward me as if beckoning for help. Instead I raise the knife once more.

“No,” Skye says, suddenly by my side, taking my hand, taking the knife. My fingers don’t protest as she uncurls them. I am powerless against her. “Go to your sister.”

My whole body numb, I manage to stand, unsteady on my feet, shaking, stumbling my way over to Jolie, seeing moving bodies around me, barely able to recognize them as the others. Siena, Circ, Wilde, Feve. They’re all here, all fought through the hordes of guards to get to me.

But they’re too late. We’re all too late.

Right where I left her, Jolie sleeps.

That’s how I want to see her—asleep—just resting, a child in her bed, dreaming a child’s dream.

My eyes play the trick, and play it well, but when Feve rushes to her side, coated in a thin layer of sweat, his markings glistening in the light, the truth returns.

Jolie, broken. Jolie, lying in a pool of her own blood. Jolie, covered in red and black, a knife sticking from her…from her beautiful…from her beautiful little body, and I can’t speak, can’t think, can’t remember another word about her, because it hurts too much, and I’m by her side, like I floated there, because I can’t remember walking, and I’m cradling her head in my arms and I’m crying into her hair, and there’s nothing left in this world.

Nothing.

And then Feve opens a leather pouch at his side, removes little glass jars and skins of herbs.

And then he reaches for the knife, the knife in my sister’s back…

“Don’t!” I shout, my voice husky and heavy, grabbing his hand, stopping him, meeting his eyes. “Don’t touch her,” I say.

“Trust me,” Feve says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s her only chance.”

Siena kneels beside me, says, “Feve’s saved me ’fore. Let him save her.” Coming from her, it means everything. She’s the one who doesn’t even like him.

A dead girl doesn’t have a chance, but my shoulders slump and I release Feve’s arm. He couldn’t save Wes, but perhaps my brother’s life was too far gone. Maybe the Marked have magic. Maybe they have miracles. But I won’t hope for it; my heart can’t be broken twice.

Feve’s hand goes back to the knife handle.

I hold her limp head, brush her sweat-damp hair away from her face.

“Cloth, Circ!” Feve orders, and then takes a deep breath, adding a second hand to his grip on the handle. I hear cloth tearing behind us and it sounds like the rending of my own heart.

“Oh, Joles,” I murmur under my breath, touching my forehead to hers. “You can’t go. Please stay.” But she’s not breathing, not moving, not sleeping like I want to believe.

Circ slides next to us with a panel of cloth. He uses a blade to cut it into long strips. Feve looks at him. “You ready?” Circ nods. “When I pull it out, hold some cloth firmly on the wound. You’ve got to be quick, she can’t lose any more blood.” Circ nods again.