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The moment it was full, he slammed the needle into her heart and pushed down on the plunger, dispensing every last drop.
“You’re not doing this,” Darien gritted out. “You’re not fucking doing this, Loren.” He threw the syringe aside and began chest compressions. “You’re not leaving me. You are not leaving me. I haven’t come all this way—all this fucking way—for nothing!”
He pinched her nostrils shut and breathed into her mouth. Behind him, sirens wailed, people wept, and Ivy cried out in pain as Tanner disinfected her wound, the pungent bite of alcohol choking the air.
“Breathe,” Darien said, pumping her heart. “I need you to breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.”
Again, he blew into her mouth—the mouth he’d kissed a thousand times. Her lips were icy, her skin pallid and waxy. Even her hair had lost its luster, as if Death had already claimed her.
No. Darien chanted the word, every breath sawing his lungs apart. No. No.
Fucking no.
“Loren!” he called out to her, a broken sob that cleaved the air, heart splitting in two. “Come on, baby. Come on, baby—breathe! BREATHE!”
This wasn’t happening—this couldn’t be happening. If he’d made a mistake, if he’d chosen the wrong path, the path that had led to her death—
If he was responsible for this, he would never forgive himself.
He would never survive this.
“Breathe, goddamn it!” Again, he pinched her nose and blew into her mouth. Pumped his hands harder. Harder. She had to wake up—she had to stay with him. “Breathe, sweetheart! BREATHE!”
In the heart of the universe, in the middle of nowhere, the girl began to fade away. The water was heavy, and she could no longer tell up from down, could no longer see the old school building. It was dark here, and she was alone, not even her Familiar Spirit by her side.
But then she heard a voice. A male voice, shouting at her to breathe.
She didn’t know who it was, who was calling out an unfamiliar name on raw, broken breaths, but suddenly, she was overcome with the will to live—to fight.
Somewhere, far above, she saw a light. It was so soft, it was barely visible through the dark, rippling water, but she swam toward it, kicking her feet as hard as she could. Her hands had grown transparent, but she could still see them, and she clung to this fact as though it were a life raft as she swam, following the sound of his voice—so strong and deep. Stronger, perhaps, than the water that threatened to crush her.
“Breathe!” shouted that deep, rich voice. “Breathe!” There was such power in that voice, she would have wept from the emotion choking every word, had she been able.
She wished she knew why he was so upset.
She wished she could see him.
Harder, she swam. Faster. Her chest was tight and aching, and her hands were fading, quickly now, but she fought. Gods damn her, she fought.
One more kick, one more stroke of her transparent arms, and she broke the surface of the water, coughing and gasping for air.
She sat up—in the clawfoot bathtub in the schoolhouse.
Erasmus and Helia sat on the floor nearby, speaking quietly among a collection of candles. Helia was wrapped up in a plaid blanket, picking through an emergency kit that was open before her. Elix was gone—it was just the two of them now. Helia began to tend to Erasmus’s wounds, gently dabbing at the split in his lip. He watched her with affection, the blood on his face gleaming in the candlelight.
The water in the bathtub drained with a noisy gurgle. The girl kept breathing breaths she didn’t need, her ghostly body cold and shaking.
That powerful male voice was gone. But there was a part of her now that didn’t feel as alone as she had before.
“Breathe!” Darien shouted, his throat so raw it felt bloody. He pounded a fist on Loren’s chest. “Breathe! Breathe, god-fucking-DAMNIT!—”
Loren’s chest rose with a shuddering breath drawn through her mouth. Those eyes were still shut, but she was breathing again.
She was breathing—
And then she coughed.
Darien held his breath, staring at her face, hoping and praying with every goddamn shred of his soul that she was finally waking up.
