Page 222 of Bedeviled

“No,” she whispers weakly.

I push myself up to my knees, then stagger to standing. The darkness has stolen more of my vision, but I can still see how Eislyn’s limbs slip beneath the mud.

Her eyes widen now, and perhaps for the first time in either of my lives, I see real panic there.

“Roxilana, I will bind myself to you. I will take any terms you wish. You can have my wealth, my palace—all the power you desire,” she rasps, her eyes unfocusing, then refocusing. “Just please, spare my life.”

I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of her request.

“You can beg the gods that live below us for a deal. Maybe they’ll spare you as they did me.” I lean in close. “But you will have to be their plaything for a bit. I’m not sure how well that fate will suit you.”

Dying though she is, she begins shrieking weakly, and she doesn’t stop until the wet soil overtakes her mouth. When the earth rises to her nose, once more I see that spark of panic in her eyes.

Countless civilizations have risen and fallen over the span of her life. She was next to ageless. But even her immortality is fragile. Give her a little magic, and she might be able to recover from her wounds, severe though they are. But close her airways, and she will die.

Her eyes appear to be begging me to rethink her offer, but we’re far beyond that.

The wet soil drags her down, down, down into the same darkness I lingered in for ages, though I don’t remember it.

It closes over the delicate, pointed tips of her ears, then the pale blond crown of her head.

And then she’s gone.

I sense the Hungering Ones retreat into the soil, and the muddy ground resettles. I stare for several moments longer, sure this is some clever trick, sure that the fairy has some alternate plan in place.

When it’s clear that she’s really, truly not coming back, I relax.

Memnon, Eislyn is finally gone.

My body gives out, and the world goes dark.

CHAPTER 53

Itchy, uncomfortable heat in my chest rouses me, along with a single, whispered word.

“Obat’iwavak.”

Wake.

I draw in a sharp breath. For an instant, the pain in my chest burns bright, and then it fades away.

My eyelids flutter open, and a large, dark shape looms over me.

“Only fools and warriors pass out under an open sky. Est amage, you are undoubtedly the latter.”

My skin pebbles at that voice, and as my eyesight focuses, Memnon’s form sharpens into view.

His hair is windblown, his face and body are bloody, and his neck tattoo of Nero peeks out from above his torn collar. He is undoubtedly the most ferocious, wonderful thing I’ve seen in all my life.

I reach out to touch his face. “Am I dead?” I ask.

Memnon’s eyes crinkle at the corners as my palm cups his cheek. He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to the skin there before his attention returns to me.

“No, little witch. You are very much alive. Though I will remind you that you nearly died, and after vowing to me that you wouldn’t.”

I drag in a ragged breath and close my eyes.

I’m alive. As is Memnon. As is⁠—