Boundless

His heart’s not beating. He’s not breathing.

I’ve never learned CPR, but I’ve seen it on television. I’m crying raggedly, stifling my sobs so I can breathe into his mouth. I press on his chest and hear a bone crack, which makes me cry harder, but I keep doing the compressions, willing his heart to pump. I can feel when I touch him that he’s already hurt so badly, so many bones broken, organs inside of him injured, maybe beyond repair. Bleeding inside.

“Help!” I scream again, and then stupidly remember that I’m more than a human girl in this situation, that I have the power to heal, but I’m so shaken that it takes me a few tries to summon glory. I lean over him, the glory shining through me like a beacon on the shore of Jackson Lake, where anybody out on an early morning hike could see me now, but that doesn’t matter. I only care about Tucker. I put my glowing hands on his body and will his flesh to mend. I stretch my body along his, my cheek to his cheek, my arms around him, covering him with my warmth, my energy, my light.

But he doesn’t take a breath. My glory fades with my hope.

I hear wings behind me. A voice.

“Now you know how it feels,” she says, and I raise my arm to block her dagger, but I’m not quick enough. She’s going to kill me too, I think dazedly.

But then she doesn’t. There’s a strange noise, something whistling by my head.

And then there’s a glory arrow sticking out of Lucy’s chest.

Jeffrey’s standing behind her, his face resolute but also shocked, like he didn’t even know what he was doing up until now. He drops his arms.

Lucy’s dagger is gone. She crumbles to the ground, gasping like a beached fish.

“Jeffrey,” she says, reaching for him. “Baby.”

He shakes his head.

She turns onto her stomach like she’s going to drag herself away from us. Then without warning she rolls into the lake, and she’s gone.

I turn back to Tucker and bring the glory again.

Christian comes down on the shore next to Jeffrey.

“What happened?” he asks.

I look up at him.

“Can you help me?” I whisper. “Please. I can’t make him breathe.”

Jeffrey and Christian exchange glances. Christian goes to his knees beside us and puts his hand on Tucker’s forehead, like he’s feeling for a fever, I think numbly, although that’s not what he’s feeling for. He sighs. Puts his hand gently on my arm.

“Clara …”

“No.” I pull away, grasping on to Tucker more tightly. “He’s not dead.”

Christian’s eyes are dark with sorrow.

“No,” I say, scrambling to my knees. I pull up Tucker’s T-shirt, lay my hands on the strong, brown expanse of his chest, over the heart I’ve heard beating under my ear so many times, and pour my glory into him like water, using all of it, every bit of life and light there is inside me, every spark or flicker of light that I can find. “I won’t let him die.”

“Clara, don’t,” Christian pleads. “You’ll hurt yourself. You’ve already given too much.”

“I don’t care!” I sob, swiping at my eyes and pushing at Christian’s hands as he tries to pull me away.

“He’s already gone,” Christian says. “You’ve healed his body, but his soul’s gone. It’s slipped away.”

“No.” I lean down and put my hand to Tucker’s pale cheek. I bite my lip against the wail that wants to tear out of me, and taste blood. The ground shifts under me. I feel dizzy, faint. I gather Tucker’s body into mine, hold him against me, my hands curling and uncurling in his coat, spilling out jelly beans on the wet rock beneath us. I stay that way for a long time, letting my tears run against his shoulder. The sun gets warmer and warmer, drying my hair, my clothes, drying his.

Finally I raise my head.

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