Page 51 of Ivy & Bone

Get her to safety. Save her. He could dwell on those pesky thoughts later.

He gathered her in his arms, and magic came to life, encompassing her form in a gold glow. Pain wrenched through his body, jerking through him as if a dagger had been rammed into him from behind, dragging out his power by force. But he continued to hold on to Prue, waiting for his magic to do its work.

When the glow faded, she didn’t wake up.

Cyrus stared at her, expecting her body to shift. He imagined those lavender eyes glaring at him as she pushed him away from her . . .

But nothing happened.

Prue’s eyes remained closed. Her skin took on a grayish pallor. The large gashes on her shoulder and her forehead had sealed themselves up, no doubt from Cyrus’s magic. And her arm was no longer twisted at an angle, indicating the bones had been mended. So why wasn’t she waking up?

Dammit. He had to get her somewhere safe, somewhere away from the cold, otherwise the healing wouldn’t work. That had to be it. He was so accustomed to using his magic in the Underworld, where the elements wouldn’t disturb him, that he didn’t want to imagine how the cold might affect her injuries.

His descent down the remainder of the mountain pass was achingly slow, and each step sent a fresh bolt of urgency through him, reminding him that Prue could be dying. Maybe his magic wasn’t enough for her. Maybe she hadn’t granted him enough power to heal her properly.

Maybe she was already dead. He was too terrified to check, trusting instead that his magic was knitting her back together as it should.

He didn’t use his healing powers often. For one thing, rarely did anyone need to be healed in the Underworld; it mostly consisted of immortals or those who were already dead.

For another, the healing affinity came straight from the mortal realm. It was the one thing that took from him instead of empowering him. Healing was a human act because only mortals needed it. As such, Cyrus had to borrow from his own immortality in order to use it. It required a price.

The only other time he’d used it was to heal his brother after dealing him a fatal blow. But that had been utterly selfish; he’d wanted his brother to live, to suffer. And for Cyrus, the price was worth it. He would sacrifice a portion of his immortal soul for vengeance.

Other than that, he ordinarily refused to use that particular power. Because each time he did, he grew closer and closer to becoming a mortal himself. That magic would take and take until there was nothing left of his immortality. Until he was nothing more than a useless human.

But here and now, he didn’t even need to think twice about it. Yes, he would do this to save Prue. He was startled by just how much he was willing to give up in order to save her.

It was only because of their bargain. Because he needed her magic to take back his throne. That was all.

Wasn’t it?

He didn’t let himself think about it.

At long last, he reached the bottom and followed the path winding toward the outer village of the kingdom. He hurried up to the first house, a tiny hovel with a roof buried in snow, and hammered incessantly at the door. Eventually, a wizened old woman answered, her eyes widening at the limp figure he held in his arms.

“Please,” Cyrus panted. “Is there a healer nearby? She needs help.”

The woman blinked, appraising him for one agonizing moment before gesturing down the road. “Healer Barrow is just down there. Brick house with a yellow flag attached to the door.”

“Thank you.” Cyrus bowed his head to her and rushed off, ignoring the strain in his muscles or the way his insides twisted. He couldn’t tell if it was from panic or the way his sacrifice had altered himself. But he didn’t care. He would assess his powers and his soul later, once Prue was healed.

Cyrus reached the healer’s house, glancing once at the yellow flag whipping in the wind, before knocking firmly on the door.

A man with wild white hair and an equally unruly beard answered the door. Spectacles hung on a chain around his neck, and he quickly donned them to assess the situation.

“Bring her in, bring her in.” He didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t even ask who Cyrus was.

A surge of respect swelled in Cyrus’s chest as he hurried inside. Thank the gods this man was kind enough to inspect a complete stranger. The thought made his insides twist even more.

Stop that, he ordered himself, irritated at the array of emotions overwhelming him. Now is not the time for feeling soft.

The mortal realm was affecting him too strongly. He’d been here too long.

But there was hardly anything to be done about it now.

Cyrus carried Prue into the old man’s home, dodging piles of books and clothes and various medical instruments strewn about. He had a disorderly appearance but moved with swift efficiency, as if the organized chaos was just how he operated.

“Over here.” With quick work, the man cleared a large dining room table and draped a tablecloth over it before gesturing for Cyrus to lay Prue on top. He obeyed, resting her gingerly atop the table.

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