by Melanie Card
Do it, Celia.
Please, Goddess.
But the curse jerked Ward around, and magic raced from his fingers.
Celia raised the dagger above the shard. Ward’s magic sliced into her. She screamed. Her muscles trembled. Ward wrenched his hands back, forcing the magic into himself instead of attacking her again. It sliced into him, tearing at his soul.
Celia plunged the dagger into the shard. Fire and ice exploded within Ward. Smoke poured from him, and agony consumed him. His knees buckled and he hit the ground, his head smashing against the floor.
Thirty - Seven
Celia rushed up the tiers, leaping and racing around all the possessed people unconscious on the floor, to Ward and dropped to his side. Please don’t let him be dead. Don’t let him be dead.
He sucked in a ragged breath, his expression dazed.
Her throat tightened, and a mix of fear and relief and desire flooded her. Thank the Goddess.
“You stupid necromancer,” she said.
He snorted. “You should talk. Let me look at your wrist.” He reached for her with his long, perfect fingers. Fingers that promised shelter and strength and healing. Blood coated them. It stained all the way up his biceps.
She shuddered at the memory of his magic seizing both her body and soul, and tearing into it. He’d almost lost it. He had lost it.
He dropped his gaze to his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t you,” Nazarius said, his voice gruff.
“But it was. A part of me wanted to be strong enough to destroy it.”
“And you were. You held it off long enough for Celia to shatter the shard. The Quayestri call that teamwork, and I’d have you as my brother any day.” Nazarius shoved up to his feet and groaned. “I’ll start rousing and organizing the survivors and get them up to the keep.”
“A Quayestri’s work is never done,” Celia said. But she was grateful Nazarius was giving them a moment. She had so much she needed to say to Ward.
Ward pulled pieces of folded parchment from under his shirt and the waistband of his pants and handed them to Nazarius. “I think we’re in the chamber in the bottom right corner of the first page.”
“Good.” Nazarius glanced at it and turned back to Celia. “Keep an eye on him.” He hobbled to the edge of the tier and the closest now-unpossessed man.
All over the chamber, people were rousing from Ward’s massive reverse wake spell that had knocked them out. Celia had never felt anything so powerful in her life. It had roared around her, forcing her to use all her will to keep standing. And she knew Ward had tried to pull the magic away from her and Nazarius. She’d seen it in his expression when the blast exploded from him.
Ward groaned and pressed his palms to the floor as if preparing—but not ready—to stand.
She brushed a hand across his arm, not wanting to come across as too eager. He didn’t know that she wasn’t undead, not yet, and now that the moment had come to reveal the truth and tell him how she felt, she wasn’t sure what to say. A part of her trembled at the idea of revealing an emotion so strong and yet so fragile. If he rejected her, a part of her would shatter. She hadn’t thought any part of her could break, that she was strong, but Ward had revealed a fissure in her assassin’s soul.
“Give it a moment,” she said, meaning both him standing and her revealing the truth.
“Nazarius could use help. He’s injured, too.”
“He didn’t just channel the magic of who-knows-how-many souls or fight possession by Diestro’s curse.”
“I’m not bleeding. He is.” Ward’s gaze, filled with such warmth and concern, locked onto hers. “And so are you.”
She couldn’t hold his gaze and dropped hers to their hands, inches apart, pressed against the floor. “You haven’t looked in the mirror recently, have you.” His face was as gaunt as when they’d stumbled across Macerio’s mansion a week ago. Dark circles ringed his eyes, mottled with green and yellow from his broken nose, and tiny tremors shook him. Those had to be an aftereffect of all that magic.
“Besides, if Nazarius helps these people up to the keep, that will give us a chance to find where Allette hid Macerio’s spell book.” Not to mention find the other spell book Ward didn’t know about that had been stolen from Florino’s desk. She’d also, finally, be alone with him without any dire threat hanging over them. Then she could risk everything and tell him the truth.
Her stomach churned with a strange mix of hope and fear. Goddess, she couldn’t wait to see the look on his face. He wouldn’t believe it at first. He’d never be able to accept he was powerful enough to cast a true resurrection—she’d have to get Remy to convince him. Then, the only thing keeping them apart would be if Ward didn’t feel the same way about her. The fear in her stomach overwhelmed the hope and turned to a hard ball of ice.
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
“What?”
“I said the book could be anywhere. Are you all right?”
“Fine. Great.” She turned to see if Nazarius had cleared the room yet and jarred her broken wrist. Pain shot up her arm, and she drew in a sharp breath. But it was a real breath and real, living pain.
Nazarius ushered the last of the dazed people through the main arch. Celia stood. She couldn’t sit there anymore. She wanted to scream the truth to the world, savor the echo that would boom through the massive bathing chamber. She turned back to Ward, her good hand extended to help him to his feet.
A hint of a smile pulled at his lips, and he wrapped his fingers around hers, his flesh warm and sure—if a little sticky with blood—holding her tight. He rose, but didn’t let go of her hand. His gaze locked on hers again, capturing her. The air between them thrummed, the promise of lightning and heat building and tingling across her skin. This was magic, but a whole new kind. One she’d never expected to see from Ward. Not while he still thought she was undead.
“Ward, I—”
He inched closer. The thrumming increased, racing with her pulse.
“I thought… I thought I was going to kill you,” he said.
“But you didn’t.”
“I thought I was going to lose you.” He brushed his hand across her cheek, drawing shivers.
“Ward.” She couldn’t catch her breath. There was such pain in his eyes, such want and agony. She had to tell him. Damn the risk of breaking. She couldn’t keep it back any longer.
She opened her mouth and he dipped in, capturing her lips with his. All thought vanished, replaced with the desperate desire she’d been denying since they’d kissed back in Brawenal City. She eased her good hand free of his, sliding up his cheek to the back of his head.
He groaned and wrapped an arm around her back, tugging her close, pressing his body against hers. He deepened the kiss. It was filled with promise and commitment, the full expression of Ward, like magic, zinging against her lips and racing through her.
Goddess, yes. He felt what she felt. She shouldn’t have feared the truth.
His breath tangled with hers. This was the real meaning of Ward and who he was, the sharing of souls, of life. A lightness filled her. Bright, white, the Goddess herself. Her pulse pounded. Strong. Alive. She savored the ache for more. There would be more. When Ward committed to something, he didn’t turn back, and now there was nothing keeping them apart.
He pulled his lips away with agonizing slowness, leaving her breathless. He captured her cheeks in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. His chest heaved, his breath fast and hot against her face. “I don’t care what the laws say.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Surely she hadn’t heard that right.
“You’re the one I want, and it doesn’t matter that you’re undead. I won’t fight it anymore.” He eased back, meeting her gaze, searching for something…confirmation that she felt the same way, too. Goddess above. She did! She did!
“Ward, I—”
Movement over Ward’s shoulder caught her attention. Someone was in the shadows by one of the s
maller entrances.
Remy hobbled into the light, his robes swaying around him. His timing was atrocious—
Or maybe not. Even as she watched him start on the steps to the top tier, she knew his time was short. He seemed even grayer and more frail than before. Better to tell Ward together, with Remy, that he’d resurrected her. It’d be easier for Ward to believe the truth that way.
Ward rushed to help him up the final steps, taking his arm to steady the old man. “You’ve got control of the curse?”
“Yes.” Remy patted Ward’s hand and bobbed his head.
“Good. Let me open the veil and ease your crossing.”
“But first, there’s something we need to tell you.” Remy glanced at Celia.
“Yes.” Now that the moment was here, words failed her…again. This was starting to become a bad habit. Although it really didn’t matter. Ward wanted her. Even believing she was undead, he wanted her.
Ward, still supporting Remy, turned to her. “Tell me what?”
“That you failed.” Remy shook his other hand free from the folds of his robe, revealing a long dagger. The Brother’s face twisted in an evil sneer, his eyes wild and weeping smoke, and he raised the dagger above his head.
Ward stiffened, and the dagger hurtled toward him. Celia threw herself at Remy, scrambling to grab the blade. Remy twisted, ramming his shoulder into her, and plunged the blade into Ward’s chest.
Someone screamed. Goddess, it was her.
Remy shoved Ward. He fell onto his back, grasping at the hilt, his eyes wide, his face pale.
She drew the dagger at her hip and lunged. Remy threw up a hand and a magical fire seized her muscles. She stumbled and fell to one knee. The fire burned through her. She trembled against it, desperate to regain control of her body.
Ward gasped, his hands pressed around the blade as if that could somehow staunch the blood oozing across his chest.
Remy chuckled and knelt. “Don’t you know I can’t be contained, and I can’t be destroyed?”
Celia jerked against Remy’s spell, sending an inferno racing over her.
Remy flicked a finger and his magic wrenched her to both knees and her one good hand.
“That shard wasn’t my only anchor.”
“Brother LeRoux,” Ward gasped. “The time spent together in the cage. He became an anchor as well.”
“Yes.”
Celia bowed her head, struggling to rise. Light caught in the whorls on the blade of the dagger in her hand. It was the Fortia Vas.
Remy brushed a finger over the pommel of the dagger in Ward’s chest. “Funny how I impale you with the blade, but keeping it there is what’s keeping you alive.” He wrapped his hand around the hilt and turned his smoky gaze to Celia. “What’s kinder? The slow death if the blade stays in, or the fast bleeding out if I remove it.”
“Let him go.” She had to get past this spell holding her.
“There’s no other option.” He twisted the blade in Ward’s chest, drawing a scream.
Celia wrenched against the spell. She had to break free. One strike with the Fortia Vas. That was all she needed.
Ward’s head lolled to the side, and Remy grabbed his face and wrenched him forward. “Passing out wouldn’t be any fun.”
Smoke whirled around Ward’s head. His eyes flew open and he gasped. The smoke curled around his neck. He clawed at Remy’s hand on his cheek, his breath shallow and desperate.
Celia’s muscles screamed. She couldn’t watch. She couldn’t let Ward die, not after he’d told her he cared for her.
The fire snapped across her. She trembled, fighting to stand, to move, to save Ward.
Remy jerked to face her. “I don’t think so.” He flicked a finger and white, searing agony sliced across her soul. She couldn’t see past it, couldn’t think. Another slice. Blinding. Suffocation. Her soul was bleeding, slice after slice.
She squeezed the dagger’s hilt, desperate to ground herself and fight past the pain.
Remy roared with laughter. “Oh yes, just keep fighting.” He patted Ward’s cheek without turning from Celia. “You, too, little necromancer. You, too.”
Ward gasped. Blood soaked the front of his shirt. His dark gaze locked onto hers. She’d once thought they were helpless puppy eyes. Now she knew differently. Now she knew his eyes held kindness and courage and, above all, strength.
“I love you.” He wrenched the dagger from his chest and rammed it into Remy’s side.
Remy howled and lurched away from Ward. The fire in Celia snapped, freeing her. She lunged at Remy, slicing her dagger at his face.
He stumbled back. The blade nicked his cheek.
Shit. Missed. She jabbed in again and cut his robe.
He staggered back again. She couldn’t let him escape. With a scream, she tackled him.
They slammed to the floor, and she slid her blade into his heart. No big show. Quick, to the point. Nothing that could jeopardize the killing stroke.
Smoke roared through the cavern, howling and screeching. She tore the dagger free and plunged it into Remy’s chest again. The smoke whipped around her in a ferocious vortex. It ripped at her hair and clothes, stinging her face. It sucked her breath from her body. She fought to keep her eyes open, but couldn’t see Ward through the darkness.
She rammed the dagger into Remy’s chest again. The curse screeched and wind and smoke froze. It hung in the air, quivering for one pound of her heart…two…three…
With a whoosh that tore across her body and soul, the smoke exploded into nothing.
Remy wheezed. “Thank you. It’s finally destroyed.”
And with his memories still at the back of her mind, she knew it finally was.
He sagged and his head drooped to the side.
Celia scrambled from his body to Ward. He pressed his hands to his chest, but blood seeped between his fingers. It pooled beneath him, growing larger with each gasping breath.
She pressed her good hand over his. “What do I do? Where’s your physician stuff?” Goddess, there had to be something she could do. But she didn’t know medicine like Ward did. All she knew was death.
Ward shuddered.
“I’ll get help.”
“No.” He slapped a bloody hand over hers. “Kiss me.”
Her eyes burned. “You need help.” But if she moved her hands he’d bleed out. He already was bleeding out. There wasn’t any time.
“Celia Carlyle, just kiss me.”
He was so pale. His image wavered and a hot tear sliced down her cheek. He squeezed her fingers, his grip weak. Or was she too numb. She couldn’t feel anything, could barely hear and see.
“Kiss me and ease my crossing.”
Her throat tightened, and she leaned over him. His breath fluttered from his lips.
Goddess, please. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
His chest rose with an almost imperceptible breath and his body shuddered. “Love.”
She pressed her lips to his. Soft, warm. They’d been soft and warm when she’d first kissed him all those days ago. He’d been desperate, thought he was dying then, too.
Her throat burned. He was dying now.
He smiled against her lips. Drew another breath and shuddered.
Another tear raced down her cheek. This couldn’t be happening. She’d finally realized the truth about him and about her. And not just the truth that she was really alive, but that she could do good with her life like Ward did.
She pressed her lips harder against his.
He didn’t move. Didn’t draw another breath. Didn’t shudder.
Oh, Goddess.
Her throat tightened. Her chest burned. Her eyes burned. Her whole body burned.
Ward was dead.
Thirty - Eight
Celia couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Ward was dead. Dead.
Goddess, he was dead!
She screamed, pressing her unbroken hand to the gash in his chest, unable to admit defeat. Traitorous tears raced down
her cheeks. She was stronger than this. Death didn’t make her cry. She was death, vengeance, and everything within her wailed her fury.
But Ward was dead, and she’d failed. It was her fault.
She was supposed to keep him safe, protect his goodness, the goodness that helped her figure out what real strength was, and that she could be kind without being weak. If she’d just noticed Diestro’s curse had possessed Remy… If she’d told Ward how she felt sooner… Maybe if she’d told him the truth. If he knew he’d resurrected her and not just brought her back with an unnatural afterlife, he could have saved himself.
This was not happing.
It. Was. Not. Happening.
“Damn the laws. And damn you, Goddess!” Her voice screeched through the chamber, shrill, exposing the panic racing through her. She’d killed him.
In that first moment, that heartbeat of a decision, when he’d first woken her from the dead and she decided to keep him close and use him. That was when she’d murdered him.
She fisted her hand in the front of his shirt and jerked him up. “You weren’t supposed to leave me. You can’t just leave me.”
His head lolled to the side. Light played on the delicate, noble lines of his face. His hair stood up in all directions like when she’d first met him back in Brawenal City. Except now he didn’t look like a thoughtless scarecrow, he looked like a warrior. Even in death there was a new strength to him, a fierceness that hadn’t been there before. The last few weeks had tested him, forged him into someone he shouldn’t have had to become. That was her fault, too. Whether it was intentional or not, she’d tortured him by making him choose one evil after the next, then stained his soul with black necromancy, and finally murdered him.
She eased him back to the floor and brushed a hand over his cheek, smearing blood across it. The necromancer’s source of power. Ward hadn’t thought he was a very powerful necromancer—which she knew now with certainty wasn’t true—but with all the blood spilled during the battle and Diestro’s curse, there was enough for even the weakest necromancer to cast something.
Ward’s words from that morning raced through her. He’d been drawing an octagon and goddess-eyes on the executioner’s platform, determined to do whatever it took to banish an angry rith—a rith that had turned out to be Diestro’s curse. He’d said, Anyone can cast magic with enough blood.
