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The pendant felt like fire against her throat. He was here, he had to be—
“Juliana,” said a faint voice.
Juliana wheeled, spotting a figure slumped beneath the root of a tree, half-covered in vines.
Hawthorn.
She rushed to his side, brushing away the bracken clinging to him. The front of his doublet was sticky with blood.
No, no, no…
“Is it mortal?” he asked, glancing down. His skin was clammy and pale. “There’s… there’s a lot of blood…”
Juliana swallowed, throat raw. “A flesh wound,” she told him, yanking out her handkerchief to press to the wound. “Nothing more. Hold still.”
Hawthorn cried out as she pushed down, hoping to force the blood to stay inside him, wishing and praying for magic, the kind he’d once used on her—
But she had no magic, and fae couldn’t heal themselves.
“I am growing used to the sound of your lies,” he rasped. “You aren’t as good at them as you think.”
“I’m astonishing.”
“No… arguments… here…” His head rolled to the side.
“Don’t you dare!” she hissed. “You don’t get to die, do you hear me? I don’t give you permission. I have not kept you alive all this time for you to die now.”
“I knew… I knew you’d say… something like that…”
“Thenlisten to me.”
“A nice… a nice thing…”
“What?”
“I want you to… to say something nice…”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you hate me,” he said, “but I also think… that of everyone in the world… you might like me best…”
“You aren’t making sense!”
But of course he isn’t,said a voice inside her.He’s losing too much blood. He’s going to die.
“No!”
“Who… who are you screaming at?”
She let out a long, low whistle, followed by another cry. “Help!” she called. “I need help!”
Her handkerchief was nearly wet through. The vines curled around him, cradling his limbs.
“Help him,” she pleaded, like she was the Queen, capable of commanding them, bending them to her will.
The vines criss-crossed over his middle, pinning him in place, plugging up the wound. Juliana pulled her hands back, slick with blood.
She had to go. She had to fetch help.
