With that, he stalked from the bar, leaving me no choice but to take the heads from the wall one by one, all the while turning over the words he spit.
My fault.
Chapter 41
Faylinn
“No! Holt!” I screamed, standing as close to the barrier as I dared.
The rebels holding Holt regained their footing after the sudden burst of wind.
The one holding the knife pulled Holt’s head back, the edge now digging into his neck. Blood trailed down his beautiful brown skin, mirroring the tears tracking from his eyes.
“Deal’s off.”
The blond man and I took steps toward Holt at the same time, but it was a futile action.
“I lov—” Holt’s words were cut off as the man dragged the knife slowly across Holt’s throat, pressing so deep he nearly severed his head from his neck. Blood spurted straight from the wound, hissing as it hit the barrier. All the while, Holt’s eyes stayed trained on me.
“NOOO!” My scream came out a broken plea that morphed into unintelligible sobbing. “Holt! I love you. I love you. Father! I should’ve told you earlier, I should’ve told you earlier. I love you. Holt, Father,” I blubbered numbly and incoherently as I watched his body fall to the ground, his blood pooling to match the stain of the Librarian’s blood from yesterday. Holt’s eyes were open and unblinking, still staring at me as if I was the world.
My breaths were coming in choked gasps, my body shaking. At some point mylegs had given out and I was lying on the ground, facing the only parent I had ever known.
Gone. He’s gone.
I woke with a start, my body jumping on the bed in the back of Sharol’s inn. My eyes were gritty and my tongue was heavy. I groaned and rubbed the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Of course I would dream about Holt dying.
I laid still in the bed, taking a moment to gather myself. I was alive, but incredibly drained—so drained that I could barely hear the faint hum of the magic in my blood. Whatever I did to Sol nearly took me along with it. I still had a pounding headache, though I wasn’t sure if that was from the use of my Blood Magic or from the lack of food and water over the last week.
I wasn’t in the worst shape, either. The children were starting to look gangly and bony, some of the women’s faces were drawing gaunt.
We needed food, and quick. I knew that we still had time before people started dying from hunger and thirst—we still had rain barrels in the back we could use for drinking—but it didn’t change the fact that healthy bodies helped fight infection. And we had a lot of infection right now.
I pulled my hands from my eyes, running through my mental list of to-dos.
Find General d’Alvey.
Figure out how long I was asleep.
Get the people food and medicine.
Clear the village.
Find the Librarian’s body.
Find Holt’s body.
The list was endless, and my headache mounted with the vastness of the tasks in front of me. I pulled myself from the bed, knocking my foot against the small crate that held the cactus from Holt and the two books from the Librarian. The crate had sat in here for a week, the books unopened, the cactus un-watered.
Though the cactus looked just fine. I remembered Holt telling me that it was a desert plant, equipped to survive long droughts and intense heat.
Of course Holt would give me a prickly plant that could survive anything. It was often how he described me as I grew up, and I smiled at the memories despite the circumstances.
I tore my eyes from the box and cracked my neck before rising from the bed. I sniffed the shirt I wore and nearly retched at the smell.
When was the last time I bathed? Or changed my clothes?
