“Her body is rejecting the Angel’s Trumpet,” Laurel barks out loud enough so that we can hear her over the machine. She does her best to hold Evangeline’s body still as she pulls another bottle from her collection and administers something else.
“What is that for?” I ask, moving beside Sterling to help hold Evangeline in place. But my question goes unanswered as Laurel continues fussing over her.
“Turn her on her side,” she orders, and Sterling and I obey without hesitation. Evangeline's soaked through now, her clothes slick with sweat.
Laurel gives the second round of medication a moment to kick in, leaning in close. She places her hands over Evangeline’s head, fingers dancing over her skin as she channels her magic. “Evangeline." She speaks clearly, voice strong and confident over the alarms. “We are here with you. Laurel, Quinn, Sterling, and Aamon. You are safe. We're not trying to hurt you.”
“She can’t hear you,” Aamon spits, running his hands over his face.
“It’s not going to stop me from trying,” Laurel snaps back, throwing Aamon a vicious glare, before turning her attention back to Evangeline. “The medicine your body is fighting, it’s meant to help you. We need you to stopfighting it, okay? I know it feels wrong, but I promise it will help you if you just stop fighting it.” Laurel lays the back of her hand over Evangeline’s head, her eyes fixed on the screen. They bob from side to side as she reads the data on the screen, watching for any change or improvement.
She shakes her head, looking back down at Evangeline. “It’s not working.”
“What’s not working?” I ask, a desperate edge to my voice. “The Angel’s Trumpet or the other thing you gave her?”
“Either. The Hellsbane should have helped with the convulsions. It shouldn’t be making her react like this. Her heart rate is plummeting.”
“That’s good, right?” Sterling asks, his gaze darting between me and Laurel. “The Arcane, it takes over our hearts. Becomes our life force. So if her heart rate is plummeting, maybe it’s taking over for her.”
Laurel shakes her head, standing over Evangeline. Suddenly, her body goes still under my touch. A moment of relief floods me, but it’s short-lived as I look back to Laurel and see the concern etched into her face. “Lay her on her back,” she says, voice quieter now. And once again, we obey. Laurel cradles Evangeline’s neck in her palm, lifting ever so slightly so that her head is tilted up towards the ceiling. She hovers two fingers just below her nose and in front of her mouth, eyes glued to her chest.
I follow suit, understanding at once what she’s noticed.
“She’s not breathing,” I say, though I don’t think anyone can hear me over the buzzing and beeping filling the room.
Laurel leans over Evangeline’s too-still body and starts pumping her hands rapidly against her sternum. “The Angel’s Trumpet is supposed to suppress the Arcane, not enable it. But it’s also poisoning her, making her heart stop working. And now the Arcane isn’t strong enough to take over for it.”
“So what does that mean?” I ask. The room has erupted into chaos. The alarms are only growing in their distress. Laurel is now practically on top of Evangeline, no doubt breaking ribs with the effort she’s putting into her movement. Sterling is on his knees beside the bed, clutching Evangeline’s hand and muttering what sounds like prayers to whatever forsaken gods once watched over us. And Aamon is just standing there, dumbstruck in the midst of it all. When Laurel doesn’t answer, I raise my voice, repeating my question. “What does thatmean!”
“It means she’s dying,” Laurel shouts, pausing only long enough to meet my frantic gaze, before returning to her steady rhythm against Evangeline’s chest.
For one earth-shattering moment, the room goes silent.
I spin on Aamon, grabbing him by both his shoulders. “Turn her,” I beg.
Aamon blinks, trying to process what I’m asking. “We don’t even know if it’s going to work.”
“Turn. Her,” I repeat. “Orlet me do it.”
His face falls, his jaw hardening. “I can’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Quinn. You know why I can’t. I won’t repeat Andras’ mistakes, nor will I let us make that decision for her. If this is her fate—”
“She will die, Aamon. No coming back, no opportunity to pick for herself. Do you understand that? Do you truly believe that’s a better fate than us making this decision for her?” I want nothing more than to disregard his orders, but I’m bloodbound to him—physically incapable of disobeying him. No matter how much I want to defy him, this has to be his decision.
“You need to decide now,” Laurel calls over her shoulder, then nods towards the monitor. It doesn’t take a genius to know that the numbers staring back at me are dangerously low. Aamon’s looking too, his face paling as he faces the reality of the situation.
He’s waiting too long, taking an eternity to make the call. His eyes flit from the screen down to Laurel, and Evangeline’s body under her. To a tear-stained and crumbling Sterling on the floor beside her, then finally back to me.
Aamon's face hardens, his jaw feathering. And I’m sure he’s telling me no, standing by his order to let her die. Because there’s so much pain in his dark eyes that it nearly brings me to my knees. But then he’s lifting his palm to his mouth, tearing into the flesh and jumping over the bed. Laurel moves out of the way in a heartbeat and Aamonreplaces her atop Evangeline, his fist hovering over her mouth.
“Forgive me,” he whispers. And then he squeezes till his knuckles turn white. Till ruby red droplets fall through the air, splashing against her skin and turning her colorless lips crimson.
Everything is cold. Mind-numbingly cold and completely void of light. I don’t remember what happened, or even how I got here. But I remember this place. This half world I find myself slipping into time and time again. Not fully gone, but not quite living either. And always so incredibly cold.
I can sense them, just on the edge of whatever this place is. Their voices are muffled, but I can feel their concern, their movement around me like floating orbs of energy. I want to reach out and touch them, want to ask them what happened. But I can’t get my body to move.
Something acidic suddenly dances across my tongue, something taunting and tempting. It almost feels familiar, but there’s something different about it this time that I can’tquite figure out. And despite its enticing facade, I recoil at its presence.
It doesn’t like that. The foreign substance grows, turning on me and possessing my body with a ferocity that terrifies me. And then I’m running, screaming, looking for an escape. Any escape. I pound on the walls of the obsidian cage, begging for them to let me out. Begging for them to listen to me.
