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Van pulled the blade from my body. I felt his hands, but they were cold. Way too cold. Frozen.
And everything grew brighter and brighter. I knew I didn’t have much time. Just enough to tell her one thing. One little thing.
“Don’t let this break you. Find your happy.”
“No! Damn you. No! Van! You’re a fucking god! Fix him!” She punched Van, and suddenly the pressure from his icy hands was gone.
“I…I can’t.” Van’s words were full of sorrow. “It’s not working. The blade is a royal killer.”
Cosette looked at the ceiling above me. “Eli! You sick son of a bitch! You get your ass down here and you fix him! Fix him now! Now! Fix him now, you asshole!”
But it was too late, because I was gone. The pain was gone and I was floating above her.
I’d let her down. I’d failed. I’d been so sure that I was going to win. I had so much faith in Eli that I didn’t think about all the other things that could happen. That did happen.
I felt a tug along the center of my soul, and I was pulled up, up, up.
No. Not yet. I needed to stay, but I wasn’t in control anymore and there was nothing I could do.
“I love you.” The words were a whisper and I knew she couldn’t hear them. Not anymore.
Because I was dead.
Chapter Eighteen
COSETTE
I screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
Yelling for Van to fix it.
But then he left. To where, I didn’t care. Better that he was gone.
I cried for Eli to come and bring Chris back.
For someone—anyone—to change what I knew.
Chris was gone—and he hadn’t taken me with him.
I screamed until my breath was gone and my throat was raw and the pain inside me was drowned out by the noise I was making, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. This pain and sorrow would consume me and I would let it.
I fell, sobbing over Chris’ body. His lungs weren’t moving and his heart wasn’t beating and his soul was gone, but I wanted all of that back. I wanted him back. Oh, God. My heart was shattered. I wanted him back.
There was a gaping, bleeding hole in his chest, but there was one in mine, too. And I sat up and screamed again as I rocked back and forth, because it hurt—it hurt so badly that I knew that I was never coming back from this.
And then I heard his voice. Not Chris’ voice. Ziriel’s. I didn’t hear the words but his condescending tone.
I’d survived so long by being able to take hurt—mental, physical, emotional—and shove it away. It took a lot to make me truly angry, and it was easily snuffed out or reasoned away. But not today. Anger, like I’d never felt before, rose quick, fast, boiling hot. Smothering the little bits of sanity I had left. Leaving me with only a burning fire to kill.
Die.
Ziriel needed to die.
