Chapter Sixty
Sixty
Saoirse
“Faolan!”
I lurch toward the railing, but it’s too late. He’s already jumped.
“No—” I try to throw myself over, but Brona grabs my waist, Aidan taking hold of the other side.
“Wait, Saoirse!”
“It can’t take him! I won’t let it take him!”
“Look.” The ship’s stopped tilting, the waters calming down. But as the whirlpool settles, I feel something…unlatch inside of me. A cord, untethered. A bond, shattered.
Faolan hasn’t broken the surface.
Faolan’s not anywhere at all.
“Saoirse! Look at your arm.”
I glance down and see, between one spray of sea-foam and the next, that gash Maccus carved has fixed itself, the skin whole. It should be a hopeful sight—a welcome one—but dread overtakes me instead. Because if I’m not the sacrifice, that means—
“No!” I sob, pulling at the crew’s arms—pushing against Kiara, who’s come up behind me to wrap her arms in a tight hold. “Come back!”
“Calm down, Saoirse. It’s too late.” Her voice shakes when she says it, grief raw and unfettered in her face. “He’s gone.”
“No!” I wrench against her—against Brona—and when I see Lorcan coming as well, I don’t think it through or weigh my options.
I drop into a deadweight, feeling their hands snap away from me, then crawl as fast as I can between them—pushing at Brona’s bad shoulder, guilt flickering through me—but then I see the railing.
I’m almost over it.
Almost—
A massive hand wraps around my ankle, dropping me to the deck.
“Stargazing bitch!”
Rí Maccus—the hollow, ungainly wretch he’s become—drags me toward him as the wolves and my brother scramble to get to me first. But he has a knife in his other hand, poised over my chest now—painted a sticky crimson with my own blood.
“You—”
I kick him in the face, rage bubbling up, swift and consuming.
Maccus drops the knife.
And I let myself remember the bitter taste of his fingers pushing past my lips.
The horror of that soulstone’s life slipping down my throat.
He lurches forward, one eye squinting, the other a bloody hole, and I don’t bother with the politics, fears, or regrets.
I just plunge the dagger down, jamming it through his throat.
The Stone King coughs up blood like any mortal creature, but I don’t wait to see him die.
I wrench myself free of him, grab hold of the railing, and scream at the sea, “You promised! You said you would come back to me!”
Footsteps pound across the deck, but this time I don’t try jumping.
I look frantically over the waters for any sign of red hair, gold rings, or a vibrant blue coat.
“Saoirse—”
“Come back to me!”