I draw the dagger from my belt and make careful cuts through the fabric, freeing the vials. Then, smaller, precise incisions to remove what lies beneath her skin.
Once freed, I hold one to the light, watching the liquid shift within the glass.
A silvery substance.
It glows faintly. Glitters when it catches what little light remains.
Recognition hits.
“God’s tears.”
The glower I give her is one she does not see. A tide rises and falls within my chest—turbulent with everything crashing through me at once. Frustration. Indignation. Righteous fury.
“You had these the whole bloody damn time?”
There is no response. Not that I expect one. Still, it is a conversation I intend to have—when she is capable of answering.
I eye the vials again, skepticism settling in. Tiny black speckles drift within the liquid. Those should not be there. They do more than darken it. They sully it.
The taint, not the disease, is here.
I caution myself against rashness. Whatever it is may not be responsible for her illness, but my sixth sense still tells me it’s not entirely good for her either.
If I am right, then she is not unlike Pollock and me.
Altered.
But where we were remade, this is something she has taken into herself—something that has changed her from within.
We are not the same. Yet… not entirely different. God’s essence touched us both.
I was reborn from it.
She has likely fed it into her system—again and again—to prolong her life.
Is it possible that without it, she will not survive?
It appears so, seeing as whatever affliction has taken hold of her continues to drain her of life by the second.
I don’t want to contaminate her body further, but I don’t see any way to stop the disease from spreading.
My power is not enough.
God’s most definitely is.
I hesitate only a moment more… before I do the unforgivable. I do not grant her peace or absolution, nor do I siphon what remains of her life and send it back to our maker.
Instead, I open a vial, twisting off the small cap before pressing the rim to her lips and easing them apart.
The waiting comes next.
When there’s no immediate change, I open another and feed it to her. And another. How much will it take to pull her back from the brink? Will this be enough?
The change comes within moments.
Her hair lightens. Her skin turns to ivory. Long lashes transform from muted black to white on her pale and dotted cheeks.
Pulling up her pant leg, I see the potion has set to mending her flesh, sealing the wound closed as if it never happened to begin with.
