Chapter 44 Harper #2
My wand thrums in my hand. My pulse races. Magic coils in my chest, pulsing outward through every trembling inch of my body.
The ground shakes beside us.
The creature prowls closer.
It speaks again, a whisper thick with anticipation.
“I’m going to find you, little Shadeborne.”
I taste iron on my tongue as I channel every shred of magic I have into the apparition.
Ares’s eyes crack open only slightly, the barest sliver of awareness cutting through the haze overtaking him.
His gaze drifts over my face, unfocused but desperate, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape of me before something darker pulls him under.
My hands won’t stop shaking against his cheeks, the panic in my veins loud enough to drown out everything else.
His skin is cold now, colder than fear should allow, and the poisoned veins around the gash on his side throb with a color that doesn’t belong on any living thing.
I know I’m running out of time, even if he can’t tell me that outright.
I force myself to inhale, to steady my breath long enough to gather the magic burning behind my ribs.
His weight collapses fully into me when I shift closer, his arm slipping uselessly from around my waist. I gather him to me, throat tight, eyes stinging.
This spell can go wrong in a thousand different ways, and I have never attempted it on my own.
But there is no choice left to debate, no time left to waste.
My voice is barely more than a ragged whisper as I anchor myself in place.
“Althea Collins.”
The name carries out of me like a bolt of heat, tearing through my chest and flooding every inch of my body until it sears behind my eyes.
The forest, the sky, the world all flicker at the edges.
My grip tightens around Ares because if I lose hold of him for even a breath, he will be gone.
And then the Fetches’s laughter slinks through the ruined path behind us, followed by the scrape of its claws, slow at first, savoring the approach as if confident that even magic can’t save us in time.
It steps into view, its hollow sockets fixed on Ares’s blood like a predator that’s already decided how we will die.
I fold myself over him, shielding as much of his body as I can.
The essence of the spell grows hotter, brighter, wilder.
For a moment, I’m sure it will tear me in half.
The Fetch lunges, claws slicing downward, and the world detonates in silence.
A violent crack hurls us through nothingness, and when sensation returns, my knees slam into cold earth.
Debris and roots dig into my palms as I hit the ground with all my weight.
Ares tumbles from my grasp like dead weight, landing with a heavy thud that sends panic ricocheting through my chest. My vision blurs, spots swimming in and out, but I manage to crawl to him on trembling limbs.
He doesn’t move. Not a flinch, not a breath I can see.
I lift my head, forcing my eyes to focus.
We’re in a different part of the woods entirely, older trees, thicker shadows, everything quieter as if sound has been swallowed whole.
A small cottage sits beyond a weather-beaten fence, smoke curling from its chimney.
The sight of it knots relief and dread together in my chest. Someone lives there.
Someone who might help. Someone who might refuse.
“Ares,” I whisper, pressing my fingers to his neck. His pulse flutters weakly, sporadic. The poison has crept farther up his ribs, turning the veins black like living ink. My stomach lurches. If I don’t move now, he will die right here on the forest floor.
I stagger to my feet and run.
Branches whip against my face, my legs moving on pure instinct. I shove open the rusted gate, nearly tearing it off its hinges. When I reach the cottage door, I pound hard enough to splinter wood. Every strike of my fist reverberates through my bones.
“Please!” My voice breaks open. “My friend is injured...I need help!”
Movement stirs behind the small window. Curtains flutter. A single brown eye appears, widening into disbelief so quickly it startles me. Locks clatter in a frantic sequence, one, two, three, four, before the door swings open violently.
A young woman stands there, red curls tumbling wildly around her face, freckles scattered across her nose, breath unsteady as she stares at me as if I’ve materialized from memory rather than air. She steps forward slowly, her eyes softening in an inexplicable way.
“Harper?” Her voice is barely a whisper before she grabs me, pulling me tightly against her in a hug I’m too shocked to return.
Her arms wrap around me as though she’s known me for years, as though she’s been waiting for this exact moment.
My own hands lift uselessly away from her, the urgency of the situation snapping me back into myself.
“I need help,” I say, pulling back from her hold. “Please, Ares is hurt.”
The name hits her like a dropped stone. Her whole expression changes, fear sharpening into purpose as she pushes past me and bolts into the woods. I chase after her, my heart thundering as she crosses the clearing with stunning speed.
She skids to her knees beside him, hands immediately probing the wound. His body recoils on instinct, a faint gasp escaping him before he sinks deeper into unconsciousness. Althea’s eyes widen at the sight of the darkened veins.
“How long ago did a Fetch attack him?” she demands without looking up.
“Fifteen minutes, maybe less.”
“That’s cutting it too close.” She hauls him upright with surprising strength. “Get under his other arm. We don’t have time.”
I do as she orders, ducking beneath his weight as it collapses over my shoulders. Together we drag him across the clearing, his boots catching on roots and dirt until we manage to wrestle him through the door.
Inside, the small cottage is bursting with herbs strung from rafters, jars stacked on shelves, books thrown into organized chaos. Dozens of framed photographs hang on the walls, faces watching us from every angle as if the house itself is judging our intrusion.
Althea clears a space on the table with one violent sweep of her arm. Plates and glass shatter across the floor. We lower Ares carefully onto his side, his breathing shallow and uneven.
“You idiot,” she mutters under her breath, already rushing to cabinets and tearing through shelves. “You know better than to get near a Fetch. You always know better until the moment you don’t.”
“What is going on?” My voice trembles despite how hard I try to steady it. “What is happening to him?”
Althea pauses only long enough to throw me a sharp look. “Your father’s pets don’t just maim. They curse. And the poison works faster on anyone who has Shadeborne blood in their system. He’s dying, Harper. Dying from one of your father’s favorite party tricks.”
The words sting like open flame. I can’t breathe for a moment.
“How do you know me?” My throat pulls tight around the question. “How do you know him? How do you know my father?”
Althea laughs bitterly, grabbing a red vial off a top shelf. “How does anyone know a Shadeborne? Through love, admiration… or hate. And your father inspires more hate than any man I’ve ever met.”
She uncorks the vial, and the liquid glimmers strangely. She tips it slowly over Ares’s wound. The instant the substance touches his skin, his entire body arcs off the table, his back bowing as a raw, animal sound rips from his throat.
I grip his hand, holding on for both of us as he fights the pain.
And for the first time, I truly understand how close death is, and how little time we have to outrun it
Althea works with a speed and precision that tells me she has done this before, maybe too many times.
Her hands never stop moving, but her eyes flick toward me with a sharpness that pierces deeper than any blade.
“Your father didn’t make it easy for anyone to speak to you about your situation,” she says, and her voice trembles at the edges as though the words themselves scrape her throat raw.
Suddenly, she inhales sharply and presses her fingers hard against the base of her neck, the same motion Ares made when he tried to speak earlier.
Her face tightens, jaw locking through the pain.
“We’re cursed to never repeat what we know. If we try… it causes unbearable pain.”
The sound of a low groan pulls both our eyes to Ares. His hand shoots upward, grasping blindly for something solid as another wave of agony tears through him. The table shudders beneath his grip. His veins pulse with darkened poison, crawling farther toward his spine. Every part of me goes cold.
“I don’t understand any of this,” I whisper, but confusion feels like a luxury I’m not allowed right now.
My hand lifts on instinct, sliding into his hair the way I’ve watched him do when he tries to calm himself.
It’s soft. Softer than it should be for someone who bleeds violence as easily as he breathes.
His head turns faintly toward me, his eyelids fluttering in a silent plea.
Althea doesn’t slow. She reaches for a new set of supplies, her hands moving with practiced urgency. “Now is not the time for clarity, Harper,” she says, her attention darting between Ares’s back and the vials at her workstation. “We deal with what we can control. Tell me, is Liam still alive?”
It takes me a second to process the shift. “My brother? Yes, of course he is.” Her shoulders drop minutely, as though she has been holding that answer inside her lungs.
“Good,” she says, already reaching for a small metal tray. “How fast can he get here if we send him a raven?”
My heart kicks. Liam. Theo. Sebastian. Poppy. Anyone, all of them, they would come without question. “A few hours, maybe. Liam can bring help-”
“Careful,” Althea snaps, her voice cracking like brittle glass at the edges.
“He can bring whoever he needs if it ensures he comes. But no one else is to know about this cottage unless you trust them with your life. And with his.” She nods toward Ares, whose breathing grows shallow and uneven, the poison tightening its hold.
She presses something into my palm, a needle attached to a long tube. Its weight settles on my skin like a verdict. “Why do we need Liam?” I ask, barely hearing my own voice over the pounding in my ears.
Althea circles around the table and faces me fully.
Her expression carries grief, urgency, and the tired acceptance of someone who has lived through too many Shadeborne consequences.
She takes a cloth and wraps it around my upper arm, tightening it with quick, practiced tugs until my veins rise beneath the skin.
Her fingers brush against the inside of my elbow, searching for the line of blood she needs.
“Because I need your blood to heal him,” she says.
“And I don’t know anyone else who can help you replenish yours other than your brother. ”
The room sways for a moment. My gaze drifts to Ares, his chest rising in shallow, unsteady waves, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he fights whatever nightmare his body is manifesting.
He’s trying to stay awake for me. For her.
For anything that resembles survival. His eyes crack open again, not fully, just enough for him to see me.
There’s nothing but desperation there. A silent apology. A silent plea.
My heart splinters.
“How much blood?” I ask, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
Althea holds up the IV bag. It’s far too large. No sane healer would ask this of anyone. No sane person would agree.
“How much can you give me?” she murmurs, and she isn’t asking out of recklessness, she’s asking out of resignation. Because this is the only chance he has left.
I don’t hesitate. There’s nothing to weigh, nothing to fear more than losing him. I take the needle, position it above the vein Althea found, and shove it into my arm before my courage can falter. Blood blossoms into the tube instantly.
“All of it,” I whisper.