How much more could he stand to lose?
“Kill them,” he gritted out. “Must kill them.”
Kill the demons? Probably. They’d done this to him, after all.
“Kill them.”
“Don’t worry. You did. You killed them,” she said softly.
She had no medical knowledge, no idea what to do to help Zacharel. Applying pressure to the wound, the one thing she did know to do when someone was bleeding, wouldn’t help in this case. She would be applying pressure directly to…she gagged…and might do more damage.
“Kill them!”
“You did, honey. You did.” Annabelle spread the faux-fur coat Zacharel had given her on the bed and stretched out beside him, tracing her fingertips over his brow. His skin burned with fever, the cold long gone. He leaned into the touch, his grimace easing the slightest bit.
“Save her.”
Her—Annabelle? That, she wasn’t as sure about. “You did. You saved her.”
“I…return,” a broken voice said from across the room.
She jolted in surprise, then nearly screamed in horror when she spied Koldo. Or, more accurately, what was left of Koldo.
His hands were clasped to his chest, his big fingers wrapped around something clear and thin. As he dropped to his knees, no longer able to hold his own weight, blood dripped from his now-shaved head. Gone was his robe. He was shirtless, with loose, low-hanging pants covering his legs.
Annabelle eased from the bed to race to his side. “What happened to you?”
“Make…him…drink.” Koldo fell face-first to the floor, his arms extending, the clear, thin something—a vial—rolling from his now-open grip.
His back. Oh, sweet mercy, his back. There was no flesh left, just ruined muscle and fractured bone.
“Do not…give to…me.” His eyes closed, as if his lids were too heavy to keep open. “Only him.”
Nausea churned in her stomach. She was (somewhat) used to blood considering what she’d dealt with these past twenty-four hours, and she was totally used to violence. But this…so much in such a short amount of time…just like the past…rising up to consume her…
For a moment, she was petrified in place, memories flooding her, drowning her, devastating her. Somehow she found a life raft—save Zacharel—and tugged, tugged, tugged herself to the surface.
Make him drink, Koldo had said. Shaking, she swiped up the vial and returned to Zacharel’s side. The stopper proved to be a problem, and she struggled to remove it, feeling like an idiot as she yanked and failed, yanked and failed.
“Is this the same stuff he gave me?” The same stuff that had hurt her before saving her?
“Yes,” Koldo said.
Finally, Annabelle’s biceps came through and the cork popped free. As unsteady as she was, she spilled several droplets down the side of her hand.
“I’m sorry, Zacharel,” she whispered. Because she had no idea how much a big man like him would need, especially since he was an immortal rather than a human—would too much cause an overdose and hurt him, or would too little work too slowly?—she poured half the bottle down his throat.
A moment passed, then another, and nothing happened.
Well, what did you expect? He—
Snarled, his body bowing. He slammed his fists against the headboard, cracking the wood. Next he punched the mattress with so much force, Annabelle was bounced to the floor, more of the liquid spilling from the bottle she still held.
She scrambled to her feet, expecting to see his wounds mending, but…he continued to thrash, to bleed, to snarl.
White-hot fury flowed through her veins, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. No wonder Koldo had told her not to give him any of the liquid. It was poison! And how stupid was she to have trusted him? Well, she would—