Page 86 of Death Will Follow

“Nova.” His voice cracked as he spoke her name.

She lay unmoving, her stony gaze fixed on the sky. The dam inside him burst, a wail of pure anguish spilling forth. Taking her into his arms, he sat back on his heels and crushed her to him, her limp body shaking with the force of his sobs. Their connection, the invisible thread he had always felt passing between them, had gone slack. Agony at the loss of her—his mate—consumed him, settling into the hollow space behind his ribs, the marrow of his bones.

The world fell away as he clutched her to him. Bargaining with the gods. Screaming at the sky. Cursing her father’s name. Only stopping when his voice gave out, his throat raw and his breath ragged. He thought he’d known pain. Thought he’d carried it with him most of his life. How foolish he had been. This was pain. The lack of Nova so acute, he was sure his chest would crack open, laying whatever remained of his heart bare for the ravens.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, gentle and tentative. Though perhaps he should’ve found comfort in the gesture, his rage boiled over, desperate for somewhere to go. He threw his elbow behind him, briefly catching sight of Lucan falling backward onto the sand.

When he faced forward once again, Bryn crouched before him, attempting to pry Nova’s body from his grasp.

“Don’t touch her!” he snarled, voice feral and unrecognizable.

He lunged for Bryn, an arm outstretched, ready to cause harm. Several sets of hands caught him about the shoulders and hooked under his arms, dragging him backward as he kicked his legs uselessly, stirring up a cloud of black dust. He lay on his back, his oldest friend, Arik, underneath him, an elbow tucked snug under Callan’s chin. Riven and Lucan each held an arm, pinning him to the ground.

“Breathe, Cal. Breathe.” Arik’s chest heaved beneath Callan’s back, his hold around Callan’s throat tightening.

“Nox,” Lucan shouted. “He won’t calm.”

Nova’s uncle came into view, standing over Callan and blotting out the sun. Nox crouched low, his serene face taking up Callan’s entire field of vision. The Noble Lord laid a hand on Callan’s forehead, his charcoal-colored eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Be still, Callan,” Nox murmured. “Be still.”

All at once, the rage threatening to drown him ebbed, a wave receding from the shore. Callan’s limbs slackened, and he ceased fighting against his friends’ hold on him. Though the fury had deadened, a profound grief remained, at once both hollow and heavy. He sagged under the weight of it. His sobs returned, and he realized his friends were no longer restraining him; they were embracing him.

Nova.

She was his only thought as he drifted off into nothingness.

Thirty-Five

Callan woke in Nox’s tent some time later, plagued by an all-consuming thirst. Lucan approached the bed, offering a flask when Callan sat up. Callan drank greedily, the cool water soothing his aching throat. His eyes burned, and his head throbbed. The interior of the tent glowed faintly, and he squinted as he glanced at the moonstone orbs strung up around the ceiling. The hour grew late. No light slanted through the vent opening in the roof. Dusk, perhaps. As Callan swiped a sleeve across his chin, his eyes adjusting, he saw her.

Shoving the empty flask into Lucan’s hands, Callan rose from the bed. On a low table in the center of the tent lay Nova. Callan approached her slowly. The blade was gone from her chest. Her blood-soaked tunic replaced with one of the loose-sleeved shirts Nox often wore. Her dark hair was combed smooth. The blood cleaned from her face. Whoever had prepared her had closed her eyes. If he didn’t know the horrible truth, he might have thought she was simply sleeping.

Fresh tears stung his eyes as he thought of all the nights they’d spent apart. Nights they should have been sleeping side by side. He fell to his knees beside her and laid a hand on her head, his fingers tunneling into the midnight strands.

“I took care of her myself.”

The voice came from behind him. Callan gritted his teeth, unwilling to look at Bryn.

“Kind of you to see to her in death.” He swallowed hard, the word—death—bitter, like bile, on his tongue. “If only you’d honored your vow to protect her with your life.”

“She asked me—” Bryn’s voice was nearer, and Callan twisted to face her, his teeth bared.

“Come no closer,” he cautioned, his throat burning with the warning forced past his lips.

Reason and restraint had abandoned him, leaving nothing but a male standing between his mate and anyone who sought to take her from him.

“I don't care what she asked you. You made a vow, and you failed to keep it.”

“Nova charged Bryn with watching over you in the battle.”

The second voice came from the opposite side of the tent, and Callan turned to find Riven standing close by. His eyes darted around the room, and he took note of Nox and Arik, the two of them standing near the entrance.

“Stand back.” Callan curled an arm protectively around Nova’s waist.

“Their bond is young, Wyldling.” Caution clung to the edge of Lucan’s voice. “You’d be wise to keep your distance.”

At the commander’s words, Callan squeezed his eyes shut. He cast about wildly, searching for the bond, the tether that had connected him to Nova since the night they’d met. The thread was faint and difficult to find—slack when it had once been taut—but still there. Tears crept out the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks. He didn’t understand. How cruel to let the connection linger when she lay so still and cold beneath his fingertips.