Chapter 24 #3
A few days ago, I’d have jumped at the offer. A potion for me; a potion for them. Now though? I’m not so sure. And I certainly can’t trust Damian. Every word that drops from his mouth is designed to manipulate a situation to his advantage.
‘Unless you’re a secret alchemist, I don’t see you replicating this potion anytime soon. Which means I don’t need you. I’ll stop Eira myself.’
Another pause, another calculation of how to turn this around. ‘And how will you manage that?’
My palm wraps itself around the vial, clutching it tightly, mind racing, stalling for time. The distance between me and the exit feels gargantuan.
He swipes for the bottle. I dodge, but he comes for me again, closing in until my back is against a shelf, the cure held above my head.
His body presses against mine as he stretches to take the vial from me, and I can’t let him have it, not when there’s no way he’ll let me speak to Eira about Astin’s hex, and not when he doesn’t deserve to have the things he wants, when there are dead bodies in a cold temple who’ll never have what they want because of him.
His gloves graze my skin. His fingers wrap around the bottle.
I’m panting, straining to raise it higher and higher, but I can’t do it, I’m going to lose everything –
I bring my knee between his legs. Hard.
He doubles over with a grunt, releasing his tenuous grip on the vial and clasping his hands to his crotch.
I run for the door, but he recovers quickly, catching me by the waist and bringing me flush to his chest. I scream, kicking and flailing my legs as he lifts me in the air.
The bottle escapes my hand, rolling beneath a chair, but he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, flipping me around so I’m against the wall once more.
I can barely think, let alone smell, but that doesn’t matter; my need to survive awakens instincts I’ve long dulled.
My hands wrap around his throat, fingers dipping beneath his collar, the tip of my nail piercing skin, feeling for his emotions.
There’s so little there; so little to take.
His gloves are a vice on my hands as he tries to claw me off.
His eyes bulge. I have no idea if I’m strangling him or channelling him, the magic flowing through me utterly pathetic, and it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough.
My nails dig in harder. He chokes. Gargles. And – there.
Anger. Red-hot anger. It starts off like sludge, and then it cracks, molten lava flowing into me, fuelling me, only growing hotter as his rage increases, and I’m growing warmer with it, anger burning in my veins now too, because this is his fault, and I should take and take and take until he’s grey and withered, because he doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters but getting out of this room and saving Astin.
His face is mottled purple now. Fear flares in his eyes.
I have to do this. I have got to find out what Eira knows. Stopping her comes later; saving the captives comes later. I don’t need Damian for either of those things.
He doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.
I feel sick, but I don’t let go. My vision is cloudy with tears. This is for Astin.
Astin, who’d hate me if I hurt another person for his benefit. I’d hate me, if I did this. Killing Damian would make me everything I’ve tried not to be.
My grip loosens. Damian sucks in a loud, wet breath.
He doesn’t matter.
And yet, somehow, he does.
Everyone matters. It’s the one thing he doesn’t understand.
I let go with a gasp, and he staggers back, rubbing his chest, inhaling great lungfuls of air. His voice is scratchy when he says, ‘You don’t have it in you, do you?’
Then he stumbles, frowning, forced to use the chair for support. I don’t think he’s registered I stole more than a few breaths from him. Probably best, given his opinion on Souleaters. Magic tingles at my fingertips.
‘Let me go,’ I say.
‘Give me the potion, and I’ll consider it.’
I can’t give it up, but without hurting him again, there’s no escape.
My hesitation is my downfall.
He moves faster than I anticipate – faster than he should be able to, given what I’ve done to him – and my head slams against the wall. Stars flash across my vision. I raise my hand, attempting to call on my magic, but I’m thrown to the floor before I can try, before I can think –
‘It’s a pity it came to this,’ he murmurs. His face swims in my vision. Any light left in his eyes has guttered out, his expression fully dark as he drops to my side to retrieve the vial from where it’s rolled beneath a chair.
I attempt to move one final time, but my body won’t cooperate, the same way it’s too dazed to blast out any magic. We both shudder as Damian palms the cure, but, I suspect, for different reasons. He’s about to get everything he wants. I’m about to lose it.
Eira’s going to die before I can interrogate her on how to save Astin. I’ve failed him. I’ll never know what his hex means. Never learn how to wield magic like the witches.
The last thing I think before everything goes black, is that I wish I’d been brave enough to kiss him goodbye in the temple.