Page 20 of Deadly Maiden

His chest is moving, up and down. I swallow. Definitely alive then.

I knew that already. I inhale and make myself check every inch of him. Blood is smeared across his lower stomach and legs, but I can find no discernible wound. Nonewwounds—an area of scarred skin covers half of him below his navel. It looks as if something has thrust into him then rummaged about.

Judging from the scream and him losing consciousness, the shifting has undone him, perhaps even hurt him severely? There might be some internal problem.

I dare to place my palm over that scar, seeking a further clue as to what has felled him.

And I shouldn’t… I know I should not do what I am thinking of doing.

But I lower my head, shut my eyes, and think my way into his flesh. This is what messed me up with the puppy. It’s why Anathema exists. But the broken legdidheal.

I sink past the skin and deeper still where his blood rushes and surges through heated flesh in an ancient rhythm. And the shift of organs, the backgroundshushof his chest drawing air, those feel as healthy as an ocean pushing waves to shore.

I catch my breath, hold it, thinking myself deeper, deeper, into a place of ancient harm.

Here.

Here is where he is damaged. The ocean calmness, the wash of blood, lymph, and etharum—that vital ingredient that holds this dragonshifter together—here it is silent and barely real.

Here is dead.

I breathe—remembering to breathe is important. My mind swims in this malignant place. Here are lumps of crushed and matted cells. Nothing is as it should be.

The scar runs all the way down. For an immortal this must be unusual?

I…could. Do something.

But I shouldn’t. That’s my cautious side.This could harm.

Harm what is dead? How?

Am I not a budding necromancer and at one with Death, according to the troop of enforcers?

I smirk at that ridiculous summary, and I begin to fumble. I don’t really know what I’m doing but I gather the dead matter, the fibrous scars, the gangrenous pieces of his flesh, and I drag them into line with where I think they should be, if they were alive.

Knit. Thread. Smooth it down. Build it up. I mutter swear words at the cells, scolding them, and I tell them: Remember what you were and stay the fuck where I put you.

Then I draw away from the task, swimming upward, panicking a little as I lose my way. Which way is up? Is it possible to be lost in here, inside this space? Am I truly insidehimor am I simply bonkers, loopy, crazy?

I kick off, push upward, or where I think upward lies.

There!

I emerge into the night, gasping, and sit back on my heels, and I really,reallydo breathe. I’m back! That was stupid, risky. Then I stare at the star-filled blackness overhead. The dust has cleared. Around me, I know that the landscape of ruined men remains. I’m not looking. I may throw up if I do.

Rorsyd is this one’s name.

Leaving his mount alone, I rise, trembling. More breathing is required.

I go to the next closest horse, lay a hand on its reins. I’ve ridden before, though not often. The horse is still skittish, though whether that’s because of me and my inexperience or the explosion it just survived, I don’t know.

I put my forehead to its neck, talking softly in nonsense, willing her to calm. I may be alone from now on, and I doubt the enforcers will simply forget me. Even if Father is okay, I will have to say goodbye, for his sake. I am going to need to learn many new things—not only how to ride well.

What does someone do when their future is nothing like they imagined it would be?

Rorsyd wanted to take me away and question me. If I was found guilty, he said he was putting me in the hands of the Aos Sin. What I did is a gift to him, in return for what he did to help me. And maybe it’s a curse. I doubt he would be happy knowing I used some sort of death magik on him.

Though this won’t last. I know this, too, from the results, before…but it should help him?

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