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Juliana shut her eyes tight and prayed for sleep or something heavier to take her.
Someone was shaking her awake, rough and hard. “Jules!Jules!Open your eyes!”
“Don’t shout…” she whispered hoarsely, curling into her wound. She wasn’t bleeding anymore, she didn’t think, but that might be the result of whatever strange spell she was under. She was dimly aware of her real body somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t turn to examine it.
Hawthorn exhaled, just a fraction. “You’re hurt.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let it slow me down.”
“I’m not worried about it slowing you down, I’m worried about it—” He stopped, hand sliding to her middle, covering the wound with his hand. His face screwed up in concentration, and the vines around her shuddered and bent. Light splayed from his fingertips, but the wound didn’t heal.
“Dammit…” he hissed.
“There’s no land for you to draw from,” Jules whispered. “We’re not really here.”
“Or perhaps I’m just desperately poor at magic and ought to have paid more attention in class.”
“Going to rip your shirt again?”
“This is finest spider silk, Jules.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.” A soft moan eased passed Juliana’s lips. How dare she try to joke with him. How dare she be finding anything funny, when— “Dillon’s dead,” she told him.
Hawthorn tensed. “What?”
“Dillon, he… he…” Slowly, carefully, she told him everything that had happened, leaving out nothing but what she and Dillon had spoken about. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that those were the last words they’d ever share.
Hawthorn listened quietly and attentively, not speaking until the very end.
“You took out his army?”
“Most of it, I think.”
“You never cease to amaze me.”
“I didn’t do it alone.”
“No,” he said, “I know.” He stroked her hair over her shoulder. “I can’t make this right. I can’t bring him back. But I will find some way to honour him when this is over. Some way to…”
His voice lost all quality, and tears prickled at Juliana’s eyes. She didn’t have the energy to be ashamed, she was too tired and too hurt to care about anything other than the fact that Dillon wasgone.
Hawthorn stroked her hair, and let her cry.
“I just left him there. Left his body exposed—”
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“I wasn’t careful enough. I thought we’d won. I wasn’t paying enough attention—”
“Ladrienkilled him, Juliana. Not you. And when you rescue me, we’ll make him pay.”
“Death is too good for him,” she whispered. “I want it to hurt.”
“We’ll find a fitting punishment for him, I swear it.”
“Good,” she said, and sobbed some more, pain still fracturing through her. She turned her head numbly towards her sleeping body. She was still bleeding, her face pale and clammy. “Dillon… Dillon wanted me to speak to his father…” she told Hawthorn, hoping he understood.
“You will. Orwewill. We’ll go together.”
