“Drake,” she says.
I don’t trust myself to speak. I just let my hand linger. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to touch my girl ever again. She’s holding her breath, afraid if she exhales I’ll vanish again.
“Stay,” she whispers, and I want to laugh, or cry, or both. Like it’s that simple. Like I haven’t been trying, with everything I have left, every second I still exist.
But I don’t say that. I just close my hand around hers again, this time holding tight.
For a moment, it’s so normal, her hand in mine, the way it once was. She grips my hand back, her knuckles white, terrified that if I let go I’ll dissipate for good.
“Do you feel that?” she asks, wonder and disbelief crashing into her voice. “It’s like you’re really here. Like you’re actually alive.”
I nod, afraid to speak. If I open my mouth, I might unravel the whole thing by saying the wrong words. I draw her in, and she lets herself be drawn, folding against me. My arms wrap around her shoulders, and for the first time since death, since after, since whatever the fuck this is, I feel whole.
She fits under my chin, nose tucked into my chest, and she is warm, and I want to stay here until the world ends, and beyond. But it’s too much to ask. I don’t say it, but she feels my hesitation. She always does.
“Don’t even,” she says. Then she pulls back and looks up at me, scowling. “I can handle it. I know I can. Now that Ash turned my magic back on. It actually feels like it’s making me stronger, to be honest.”
I want to believe her, but I remember what power costs. Always, always, there’s a price. “Rose, you don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
This woman. My Rose. If I had to die just to be part of her world, it was worth it. It would be worth it to die a hundred times over. I clear my throat, though it comes out roughly. “Maybe we should test it. See how long I can stay.” I try to sound casual.
She grins, the left corner of her mouth quirking up. “Test it how, exactly?” She lifts her chin, the tip of her nose brushing my jaw. “Usually the scientific method involves repeated trials and experiments.”
“I’d suggest nothing less.” I deadpan. “Are you proposing any particular sort of ‘experiment’?”
“I’m proposing we see how long we can make you last.” She waggles her eyebrows up and down, and there’s no mistaking her meaning. “Maybe you’ll be stuck with me forever.”
“Forever’s a long time. You could get sick of me.” I say.
She doesn’t answer, just takes a step backwards and begins removing her clothes.
Twenty
Lucien
The academy transforms in the days before Yule. Garlands of pine twist along the railings like snakes, their scent refreshingly clean against the usual mustiness. I watch a young staff member struggle to hang a wreath, the thing tilting precariously as she stretches on tiptoe.
Though there is still time left in the term, it’s quiet and subdued, a noticeable change from the usual undercurrent of excitement at this time of year. Most students have retreated to their rooms to prepare for the coming break, packing their luggage, eager to get away from the darkness that has settled over Serpentine Academy like a hulking, squatting beast. The quiet is welcome after several weeks of Jasmine’s blood sport, but this is almost unnerving.
And then there is Jasmine Wickersly herself. Three days ago, she simply stopped. No announcement, no explanation. The trials ceased, and Jasmine retreated to her quarters. Rumors spread like wildfire. She’s planning something catastrophic, she’s finally lost what little sanity she had left, or, the most ridiculous one,she feels remorseful and will stop entirely. I don’t particularly care which it is, so long as the reprieve holds until the term officially ends. The last trial ended up with over thirty students in the infirmary, several at death’s door. Despite my worry, Rose has yet to be called up to compete. That in itself causes me great anxiety. Jasmine Wickersly is not sparing Rose out of the goodness of her black heart.
I pass beneath a cluster of enchanted mistletoe that giggles when I glare at it, as it calls out ‘Kiss, Kiss!’. Whoever thought sentient holiday decorations were appropriate should be drawn and quartered. Yet even I must admit that the warm glow of fairy lights softens the academy’s harsh edges, making it look quite lovely, and almost welcoming.
Almost.
A flash of gold light catches my eye as I near the courtyard, where Rose caused the stone fountain that’s been dry for decades to flood and ancient water spirits to cause chaos. What a very long time ago that feels like now.
I pause at the arched entryway, staying within the shadows. Rose stands in the center of the courtyard, her back to me, hands extended. Golden light flows from her fingertips, and taking shape before her is a bird, detailed enough that I can make out individual feathers, wings outstretched in silent flight.
I don’t move, not wanting to break her concentration.
The bird hovers for a moment, then begins to fly in slow rings around her. She turns with it, laughing softly, and the sound hits me where my heart should be beating, if I were still alive. The bird dissolves into sparks that rain down around her like falling stars.
It’s remarkable. A few weeks ago, she could barely manage a simple shield. Now she’s creating intricate constructs with apparent ease. Ash’s training, no doubt. The thought sours my admiration slightly.
She tries again. This time, the golden light forms a wolf, its posture alert, ears forward. It pads around her, so lifelike I half expect to hear the click of claws against stone. Her control is impressive, her power even more so. It’s becoming more apparent every day why she is so important to the witches.
