Chapter 28 Penny
Penny
Ididn't look at Kit. I couldn't.
Instead, I glared directly at Merrick while I choked down the vile poison, then handed the skull chalice back to the Sentinel.
I wasn't a coward, and I wouldn't die like one either.
And I wouldn't give my half-brother the satisfaction of seeing me as distraught as I'd been the night before.
Part of me felt smug thinking of the makeshift deed to the farm, placed in Kit's name.
Merrick would be furious if he found out he'd been passed over again, and I hoped the slight cut him through.
The Sentinel passed the empty vessel to Merrick, who tucked it under his arm.
“Klaus will remain here to monitor you to be sure you don’t take measures to lessen the effects of the poison,” Merrick said while pulling the hood of his cloak over his head.
The blood drained from my face, taking with it every ounce of my righteous indignation.
There would be no opportunity to take the charcoal under the Sentinel’s watch, and there was no telling how long he would stay.
The unexpected turn of events was so staggering that it quashed my humor at realizing this was Klaus.
Violette's Klaus. Purportedly more well-endowed than Merrick.
I would have laughed but, instead, I wanted to cry.
“Should you vomit,” Merrick continued while handing the bottle of hemlock to Klaus, “you will be given another dose. Best of luck, initiates.” With a final smirk, he let himself out of the house and disappeared into the snow.
Beside me, Kit got to his feet, then offered me a hand up. His grip was bruising, and he held on as long as either of us dared before I moved to settle on the couch.
“You’re free to sit,” Kit told Klaus, but the Sentinel shook his head without a word.
Kit sank heavily beside me and expelled a long breath. He fixed his gaze straight ahead but, even in profile, his expression was haunted.
Time stretched on, and panic built as my heart raced. I forced myself to breathe slowly, deeply, not wanting to test my damaged lungs.
With Kit so close, it was a sore temptation to take his hand. His fingers pressed into his thighs, knuckles white and straining.
But neither of us moved or spoke, and Klaus remained as rigid as a boulder, for two long hours.
After the time was up, Klaus pocketed the bottle of hemlock and pulled up his hood.
“Initiates, whether you emerge strengthened, or succumb to shadows, your fate is sealed. Embrace the transformation, for in triumph or tragedy, you are bound to the legacy of Eeus. May your destiny align with his will.” With a brief dip of his head, the Sentinel let himself out.
As the door clicked shut behind him, a strangled feeling surged into my throat, and I let out a single, choked cough.
Kit fixed me with a look of alarm. He lurched off the couch, catching my arm and hauling me on a speedy journey to the kitchen. He released me then, practically flinging me toward the woodblock counter.
“Charcoal. Now,” he barked, and cupped his hand to his mouth before he turned and staggered the few steps to the sink.
I’d barely begun to rifle the cabinets for the bottle of black powder Nora gave us before Kit was retching into the basin.
Cringing, I pulled the vessel down and uncorked it.
A pair of water cups were set out, and I dumped half the charcoal into one and the rest into the other.
I took the cups in my hands and watched while the flakes fluttered to the bottom.
When I spun around to where Kit bent over the sink, he was gagging again.
The pained, straining sounds made me wince as I crept up behind him to offer one of the cups. Kit paused, panting. Sweat pasted his curls to his forehead.
“Kit…” I began, but he waved me off.
“Take yours,” he insisted. His voice was hoarse.
The niggling hitch in my breath prompted me to tip back one of the glasses and consume its contents as quickly as possible. I walked back to set both cups on the dining table, then returned to Kit, who stood unsteady and shaking with dry heaves.
I took the rag draped over the faucet and pumped water into the basin.
Another cough stirred my lungs, and I smothered it in the crook of my elbow.
It felt more familiar than I wanted to admit.
I pushed panic to the back of my mind as I washed the basin clean, then soaked the rag so I could put it to Kit’s forehead.
“It's okay,” I said, then repeated it, trying to convince us both. “It’s okay. Good that you're getting it out.”
I’d seen him sick before, when we were taking small doses of hemlock, but never this violently. Drool strung from his lips until he cleared his throat and spat into the sink. His arms braced against the counter’s edge, elbows locked, and his skin was a ghastly shade of white.
I daubed his face with the rag, clearing the sheen of sweat from his temples.
“Rinse your mouth,” he rasped.
I took one of the tin mugs from its hook under the cabinets and worked the pump again to fill it. Rinsing and spitting was difficult with Kit occupying most of the space at the sink, but I did as he told me until the last mouthful came out clear.
With me taken care of, I glanced back at the second charcoal water waiting on the table.
“Are you ready to—” Another cough interrupted my question.
Kit’s head whipped aside, his expression rife with simultaneous concern and discomfort.
He opened his mouth to speak, but fell forward before any words came out, vomiting again.
His arms bent and he slumped, draping into the basin.
Relentless dry heaves wrung his body out, leaving him strangling and gasping.
I laid the rag over the back of his neck, rubbing my hand across his shoulders and feeling helpless standing by while that too-familiar tightness wound around my chest.
By the time I realized I was struggling to breathe, Kit wasn’t breathing at all. The last in a series of unproductive retches held him in place, tendons throbbing up the sides of his throat and his dark hair dripping with sweat.
“Kit?” I gripped his shoulder too tight in my desperation, but he gave no response.
He sagged and slid down the cabinet fronts, nearly dragging his face along before I lunged forward and caught him to ease him to the floor. His eyes were closed as I rolled him onto his back.
Another cough turned into a fit that landed me on my backside next to Kit’s sprawled form. His chest rose and fell, but every other part of him was still.
“Kit?” I prompted, choked by tears along with the poison.
When he didn’t rouse or respond, I looked again at the charcoal water.
Drawing a wheezing breath, I stood and started toward the table.
If I was careful, I might be able to get enough of it in him to relieve his symptoms. We’d missed two opportunities to fight the hemlock’s effects. Kit couldn’t afford to miss the third.
I made it only a pair of stumbling steps before the room spun around me.
The air was thin, and my chest felt like someone had piled sacks of grain on top of it.
Giving my head a stubborn shake, I focused on my goal again.
The kitchen was small. Only a few feet stretched between me and the table, but the wave of dizziness toppled me over.
I crashed to the ground, landing on my hands and knees on the wood floor.
Tears sprung to my eyes, and I blinked furiously against them. I remembered this feeling from the graveyard. Weak and woozy, with darkness creeping in. Then, Kit had saved me. He took me to the mission. He got help.
If I passed out now, there would be no help.
If I passed out now, I might never wake again.
“Kit?” I whispered, willing my body to crawl toward him.
Slumped against the cabinets, he looked so weak. So absent in his unconscious state, and I needed him.
I’d never considered he might not survive this; the thought never crossed my mind. Seeing him lying limp and pale overwhelmed me with panic.
I said his name again. Bawled it. It took every bit of air I had to voice that single syllable.
I drew up beside him, and my fingers trembled as I brushed them down his face.
I would have begged him to wake if I could have spoken at all.
I would have asked him to hold me and tell me again that he wouldn't let anything happen to me. Convince me that I wouldn’t die like this: alone and far from home and so very afraid.
Everything felt heavy, like the grain bags were piling higher atop every part of me and pressing me toward the floor.
Air trickled into my starving lungs, and shadows crowded the corners of my vision.
Lying down felt too much like giving up, so I dragged myself over to the cabinets and sat with my back against them.
I pulled Kit’s head to rest in my lap, thumbing through his sweat-damp curls.
I’d prepared for this. I’d given Kit the rights to my farm and my family. But if we both died, what would happen then?
Who would tell my mother and Sayla that I hadn’t abandoned them? How would they get on without me?
“You’re a fool, Penwell.”
Merrick’s voice chastised me, as if I needed the reminder. I knew it as well as I knew better than to think I could defy a god. All of this because I believed I could spare my family the curse I’d brought on them when I refused to burn my father’s body.
I thought I was the curse—the family failure, more liability than asset. But my death might be the final nail in the coffin, forfeiting a hopeful future for my mother and sister.
My lungs refused to fill, and I gaped like a dying fish.
My fingers tangling in Kit’s hair became the only thing tethering me to consciousness.
I had so much to tell him, and Mother, and Sayla.
Most of all, I wanted the chance to say goodbye, but it was too late for that.
All I had now was silence and the darkness that closed in until it swallowed everything.