“I thought—I thought he loved me,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut. Maybe that would make her go away, or maybe she just wanted to rub salt in the wound. None of it changed how I felt about him. “But I was wrong.”
“And yet, here you are, still alive. Because he knew there was more ahead for you. If you loved him, should you not honor his sacrifice?”
I stared up at her defiantly. “Why should I?” I asked. “Why are you letting him die? Why can’t you just bring him back?” I sat up now, wild with need. “Use my blood or something. Satina, you can’t let him die. You can’t. You could help him, I know you can.”
“Oh, child,” she said with a sigh and a slight frown. “You still don’t get it. Today is nothing”—she waved her free hand dismissively—“compared to the many trials you will face yet. You need this moment in your life to prepare you. There are worse days ahead than this one. Great lovers and more painful heartaches. Believe me.”
She didn’t know shit. I glared at her. “Nothing could be worse than this. Now do something,” I growled through my teeth. “Save him!”
Satina pulled the sword from the ground and dragged it behind her as she practically floated over to me. Setting the display arsenal on the ground beside Abram, she crouched at my side and placed her hand on my arm. I would have expected my skin to crawl at her touch, but the action seemed surprisingly … gentle. Caring, even.
“He’s not gone, Charisse,” she said, her voice soft.
“You’re gonna save him?” My voice was barely above a whisper, too afraid to convey hope.
“I don’t have to,” she said, smiling. “You already have.”
“What do you—”
She swiped her fingers under my eyes, smoothing away my tears. When she lifted her hand, her fingertips were red. My tears must have been streaming through the cuts on my face from when we broke through the glass back at The Castle.
Looking down, I saw a pool of my blood, of magical blood, soaking up into Abram’s skin. It glowed with the same golden signature it had the first time he touched it.
Oh.
Realization shot through me like a current of electricity. My tears had carried blood from the wounds on my face to Abram’s beastly body. Could it really have … healed him? Of course I never would have thought of that … this whole having magic blood was new to me, and I still didn’t know all that I was capable of. But was I capable of saving him? Even without the ability to perform magic myself?
My gaze trailed up to his face, and just as I looked at him, I felt it.
I felt him breathe.
My heart sped in my chest, and a rush came through my lungs. I stood stock-still, frozen, holding my breath, waiting for another, hoping it wasn’t imagined, praying it wasn’t an illusion.
“Is he … Is he …” I was afraid to finish the question.
“Yes, Supplicant. He’s alive.”
“My God,” I whispered, my tears turning from ones of anguish to joy. “He’s alive!”
“Barely,” Satina said. “But, if he is left to heal and recuperate, he’ll rejoin us soon enough.”
“Well, then,” said another voice in the distance
My head snapped up. Dalton.
He moved toward me, already changing into a monster himself, one dead set on tearing me from limb to limb. “Looks like I’m going to have to put a stop to that.”
Chapter 32
The sight of Dalton standing there, half beast and half something much worse, sent spikes of panic coursing through my veins.
Abram was still out. He wasn’t dead, which was a step above his condition a few moments ago, but he also wasn’t in anything close to fighting shape. My body tensed as I mentally recounted the last confrontation I had with Dalton. That hadn’t gone so well for me. In fact, I still bore several injuries from that attack, although, if I knew how my blood worked, that could be what saved my big beautiful ass. Unfortunately, I didn’t know that. Not even a little.
Dalton’s gaze violated every inch of me. It seemed impossible now that I had ever thought of him as desirable, as anything other than some horrific monster. It was all over him, in the wicked crook of his lips, in the sly way with which he slinked closer.
And then something unexpected settled over me. Guilt. He hadn’t always been this thing. Dalton was once the boy I grew up with. He was Lulu’s brother, who chased us around ponds, holding up frogs like they were knives, the boy who hid behind trees and assaulted us with snowballs every winter. He was just a boy, just a person. And now, in part because of the sickness that threatened to destroy him, he was something else.
But that was no excuse. I’d lived alongside my mother in that world for years, and no one else with his diagnosis had attempted the things he was attempting.
“I won’t let you hurt him,” I murmured, my hands pressed against Abram’s barely living body.