“I'm fine,” I say quietly. So quiet only he can hear. “I'm good, Callahan.”
Please,I think silently,please just believe me.I don't know if there's a convenient time to be dying of a broken heart, but if there is, this sure isn't it. I'm not about to make this everyone else's problem. There's a lot more existential shit going on. I haven't killed anyone, for one thing, and no one made an attempt on my life either. I'm not caught up in whatever scheme Kai is trying to pull with the Consistory, and Callahan…
Cal saw it too. I know he did. He was watching my face when she touched me, the color bleeding back into the world, the vise around my ribs loosening, the gray film lifting from my eyes. I know because I could tell the exact moment he realizedsomething was wrong—really wrong, not justLanz is tiredwrong. Could see it in his eyes.
Still can.
Fuck. He doesn't deserve this. Any of this.
I will not let him care so much about what's happening to me.
“Can everyone just give me some air?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but my voice is so craggy it's actually a little pathetic. “Jeez, a guy can't even make tea in peace around here.”
“You don't drink tea,” Callahan murmurs.
“Maybe I'm starting.” Another attempt at a joke. He doesn't smile.
"Something's wrong with you, man," Kai says, dropping into a crouch, a little behind Callahan.
Now they're both peering at me, Callahan with steady concern, and Kai with something more like curiosity, but not in an unkind way.
"Nothing's wrong," I croak. Fire and lightning, that's what it feels like. In my chest. I'm going to crack a tooth from tensing so hard not to scream.
"Yeah, I'm calling bullshit," Kai says, but his tone is gentle. "Perfectly healthy, red-blooded, American…French…whatever the fuck you are, boys"—he waves a hand in the air—"don't just hit the deck like that."
"We've all been going through it," Kingston says, a bit pointedly, as though maybe there's more context to what he's saying than I realize. But he is also peering at me, his concern more genuine than Kai's.
King. I swallow what feels like a ball full of needles and push the guilt down my throat. King's been there. King's known me. King knew my dad. The whole reason he and I even met, the whole reason I'm even here. He saw what happened, saw how quickly my dad was gone.
But he doesn't know about the curse, I remind myself.Nobody knows. You've never told anyone, because you can't.
And yet…
“You felt off first," Callahan says. His eyes have not left my face.
"Uh-huh," I say. Another ripple of pain courses through me—mercifully, less brutal than the last one. "I guess."
"No, you did," he said. "At the monastery, you knew. She was missing. You could almost sense it, somehow?" He phrases it like a question.
"Yeah, an instinct or something," I snap. "Was I wrong?"
No one says anything.
"We're just worried about you, Lanz," Kingston says. Always there to speak for the room.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cabinet. I wish she wouldn't. I wish I had never given in. I wish I had never touched her, even though I know she wanted me to, and even though my body was screaming for it, and still is, and will be forever, will be until I draw my last breath, however soon or distant that day may be. Because I knew the relief was temporary, and the pain would come back threefold, just like it has.
I suck in a breath. If I'm going to suffer, and I am going to suffer, I'm going to do it in silence. Let it be sudden for them, at least.
"What's going on?" Lighter footsteps. A familiar voice. God, even the sound of her voice stirs something up in me, that little stab of pleasure-pain. I wince, my eyes still closed, as Gwenna joins the party in the kitchen. "Why are you all standing—oh my god." She cuts herself off, almost gasping. "Lanz, are you okay?"
"Peachy," I manage. I can get my eyes open at least, but I can't get away, and that's a disaster because she's right at my side now, clutching at my hand. I pull away, but it's too late. Thelittle burst of relief from her fingers is instant, heavenly, cool and calming and soothing.
And just like that, I'm reeled back in.
Fuck it, I think. I'm going to die anyway. Why not make it faster? Why not touch her and kiss her and hold her and be with her as much as I possibly can before I go? Even if it gives me less time, it'll be time well spent, perfectly spent.
But when I look up at her, feel her fingers on my cheek—oh God, not on my cheek, please—I see someone else.
