Chapter 44
FORTY-FOUR
THIA TORE DOWN A TUNNEL, DIFFERENT FROM THE ONE THEY HAD used to enter the cavern.
She had no idea where she was going; her only thought was to give Dess and Oskaren time.
She hadn’t cut herself that deeply; the wound might have started that way, but she’d released the pressure before crossing to the middle of her arm.
She was counting on Xercae not to know that.
She turned left, then right, nearly tripping on a pile of bones as she moved too quickly to watch where she was going. Footsteps echoed through the tunnel behind her, and Xercae’s high voice chased her.
“You can run, Ssslayer, but you cannot hide.”
That was true. This was Xercae’s domain, and Thia was probably two turns away from getting lost.
She had a better idea. She took a left, angling back in what she hoped was the direction of the cavern. She’d counted at least four other tunnels; one of these turns had to lead back there eventually. Xercae’s footsteps stopped, leaving Thia in silence, save for the scuff of her own boots on rock.
Another left.
Right, and then left.
And then—
She made it. She was on the other side of the cavern, Oskaren facing away from her.
The girl was sitting up now, which meant she was no longer unconscious.
But to Thia’s dismay, Dess hadn’t moved from where Xercae had tossed him, which meant he was now unconscious, or worse, and Oskaren was still chained.
Thia tucked herself against the stone, knife braced, ears straining for the sound of Xercae’s approach in the tunnel.
She didn’t have Oskaren’s fighting prowess, but she thought, with the element of surprise, she might just have a shot to reenact their original plan.
She pressed herself flat, forcing deep breaths.
And skeletal hands yanked her into an iron clasp.
The witch had clearly taken another path, a shortcut perhaps. Xercae moved too quickly for Thia to resist; one moment she was pressed against stone, the next those hands were around her arms, pinning them to her side, a chest crushed against her back, and fangs sank into her neck without preamble.
Thia screamed. She twisted, and the witch’s teeth sank deeper, tearing several inches into her flesh and depositing venom that burned white-hot.
At the sound of her cry, Oskaren turned, eyes widening in horror.
Thia struggled, trying to yank her arm free, but the witch was as solid as concrete.
For all their practice, she couldn’t do what Oskaren had taught her, couldn’t reach anywhere else on the witch if she tried, and shame burned through her.
A tear slipped onto her cheek as Xercae cradled her lovingly, crusted mouth slurping Thia’s blood.
Behind Oskaren, Dess was blinking slowly awake; the two of them said something to each other that Thia didn’t hear. Oskaren struggled against her binds, only to sway and clutched her head. Dess stood, and Xercae waved a hand without pausing her feast to slam him back into the rock yet again.
No, Thia tried to say. Please. She was cold now, the pain in her neck fading to a distant buzz.
She wondered when she’d reach hypovolemic shock.
She wondered when the witch’s magic would bring her back, and if she’d feel it, or if all her sense of being Thia would be gone by then.
She wondered at the terror on Oskaren’s face, the tears that spilled as her mouth formed Thia’s name.
Distantly, she thought a bird was crying; a silver bolt appeared, only for Xercae to raise another hand against it, and then it was gone.
At some point Thia stopped feeling cold.
The world was too dim; she could only see faint shapes and blurs as she blinked slowly, her eyelids made of wood.
It probably wouldn’t be long now. The blood on her neck had dried, and the brutality of Xercae’s sucking motions told her that her blood was not as free flowing.
She was only sorry for what the witch would do to her friends, sorry that it was her fault things had come to this.
She wished she could have seen Grandma Winnie one more time and thanked her for raising her, even if she had lied.
She wished she’d told Oskaren how she felt, even if Oskaren couldn’t say it back.
She was falling.
Why was she falling?
Xercae’s hands were no longer supporting her.
Cold rushed in again, and Thia’s chest gave a painful squeeze as her heart thumped back to life.
There was a strangled cry, masculine and desperate, a crunch, and a spray of moisture that fell on Thia like rain.
She crashed into the stone floor, bones howling at the impact; she might have screamed, but her mouth wouldn’t work.
Beside her, another body crumpled, its black cloak a billowing banner that fluttered through the air as it fell.
Xercae’s severed head hit the rocks with a splatter, bouncing once, twice, before rolling to a stop beside Thia’s own.
Thran was standing above her now, sword dripping black fluid, his blue gaze wide and terrified as he looked not at his conquest, but at Thia.
Thia tried to move, to thank him, to rejoice, but she was frozen. She was afraid she’d lost too much blood, that she’d been injected with too much poison, and, for all that Thran was victorious, she was going to perish here, or awaken Unfleshed.
There was another cry as someone shouldered past Thran, falling to their knees to collect her into their arms. Oskaren—perhaps Dess had freed her.
She cradled Thia to her chest, tears still falling; they splattered on Thia’s cheeks to mingle with Xercae’s blood, and her own.
She wanted to reach up and cradle the other girl’s face, to tell her not to worry, that she would be okay.
But she couldn’t. And maybe she wouldn’t be.
She could hear Dess and Thran debating. Their voices sounded distant, hollow. They were wondering if she was dead.
She could be dead.
She felt dead.
She felt outside of her body really, like she was looking down at herself in Oskaren’s arms. Maybe she was a ghost, and her unfinished business was Oskaren, because all she wanted with whatever shred of soul she had left was to take the girl’s pain away.
There was a strange glow over Oskaren’s chest, a barrier of dark blue laced with silver lightning. The curse. Thia didn’t know how she was certain.
A benefit of being dead maybe.
And behind that glittering barrier was Oskaren, in her true essence. Thia wanted to free her. She reached a phantom hand to that blue wall.
The Oskaren that held her, the flesh and blood girl, yelled like she was on fire. Her pupils dilated, contracted, then dilated again. She gathered Thia’s body tighter to her chest, shuddering a pained sob. Her tears fell harder, and she kept screaming, while Dess and Thran observed, helplessly.
Her mouth was forming words. Thia could just make them out; she wasn’t sure if it was with her real ears, or her spectral form. “Don’t leave me,” Oskaren was saying. “Don’t leave me.” Trembling and shaking, she pressed her lips to Thia’s.
At the touch, soft and fragile, Thia returned to her body.
She examined Oskaren from below, just in time for the girl to pull back with a cry, as though the kiss had burned.
The barrier was still visible, but it was between them now, and Thia reached out a real hand to it.
Her fingers passed through, and though her bones felt scrubbed raw, she lifted her arm further, fully beyond the barrier with agonizing slowness, and placed her palm on the girl’s scarred cheek. “Oskaren,” she croaked.
The girl’s face lifted, almost fearfully.
The barrier surrounded them now, shifting and growing as it tried to encapsulate Oskaren’s entire body.
But Thia could feel the real girl within, and she would not give up.
She raised her other hand, shoulder screaming in agony, and clutched Oskaren’s face so that she was compelled to meet Thia’s gaze.
“Ren,” she said, more forcefully.
The girl’s eyes blazed.
Using every last ounce of her strength, Thia pulled Oskaren down to meet her, and kissed her back.
Oskaren gasped against Thia’s mouth. She tasted of salt and blood—Thia didn’t know whose—but the barrier was weakening. She could feel it, the shreds of lightning dimming, the blue wavering, flickering in and out.
Her hands tangled in Oskaren’s hair, and the girl shuddered against her, cursed and uncursed selves at war.
She bit Thia’s lip; Thia cried out, but did not let go.
Then, suddenly, a wave of heat exploded from Oskaren’s chest. It seared everything in its path, the barrier, Thia’s hands, her skin.
But she clung on, her lips unrelenting as her body became an unbearable blend of fire and ice.
Then there was nothing but Oskaren. The girl was still cradling her, gently now, foreheads pressed together, crying her name. Thia.
The barrier was gone. The curse was over.
Oskaren was free.
Thia couldn’t have said how she knew, but she knew it was true with the same certainty with which she’d known that the strange barrier was the curse itself.
“Ren,” she said, letting her hands fall, too exhausted to continue holding the other girl.
“Thia,” Oskaren said, the word a ragged sob. “It’s gone.”
Dess appeared in Thia’s view; he crouched beside her, his cheeks damp. He slipped a hand into hers. “I thought you were dead.”
She squeezed his fingers—or tried to. She was so weak. “I thought I was dead too.” She focused on Oskaren, on her dark eyes that were big and wide and childlike. “We broke the curse.”
Dess stared between them. “Ren.” His gaze roved his sister’s tears, the fragile curl of her shoulders. “Is it—is it true?”
She nodded. “Yes.” When he continued to seem aghast, her voice turned hesitant. “Dessfar. It’s me. It’s over.” She held out her arm.
He waited one more second, and Oskaren’s chest shuddered.
Then he launched himself at her. Still in the girl’s lap, the embrace nearly crushed Thia.
But she didn’t mind, not as Oskaren hugged him back, clasping the back of his head like he was still a little boy, not as she heard him say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” into her shirt.
When they pulled away, they were both crying afresh.
“Thran,” Thia said, wanting to see the older man. He crouched as well, his weathered face haggard. “You killed her.” With her free hand, Thia reached for his, and he took it, enclosing her small one in his large one. “You did it.”
His voice was gruff, but all he said was, “I said I’d see you home, lass.” There was something tucked under his arm—Mavrel, alive, but nursing a broken wing.
Dess let out a wild laugh. “We’re alive. All bloody five of us.”
They were. Thia wanted to weep, with joy, with relief, with hope. They had killed Xercae. She could go home. Dess could have his memories back. Thran could start his school. Oskaren was free.
Oskaren was free.
“Can you stand?” Dess asked her.
“I wouldn’t,” said a familiar voice from the doorway, high and lilting. “She’s lost a great deal of blood.”
Heels clicked against the stone, their ruby color strangely complementary to the ebony stone and the blood that coated it.
Thia followed the shape of the shoes to a long, sweeping scarlet skirt that darkened into a glittering burgundy bodice above.
“Callista.” Thia frowned, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks.
“Actually,” the sorceress said, taking a delicate step into the chamber. “It’s—”
“Solanthe,” Oskaren breathed. “The queen.”