Page 57 of Cursed Shadows 4

So I fling away any thoughts of abandoning him, and I help him into the hollow. Our knees bend and we duck to squeeze inside.

It’s a narrow space, just big enough for us both, maybe another slender fae, but that’s all. I doubt two dokkalves could fit in here.

I manoeuvre Ridge to lean against the cavern wall. He slumps with a harsh breath. His mouth moves around murmured words, but I can’t quite make them out beyond a garbled hum—

Then he crumples.

Chin pressed to his clavicle, he’s on the verge of folding over. His lashes shut on this realm.

The poison has knitted too deep.

I have to make quick work of it.

I reach for his waist.

Two leather belts are strapped around him, pouches fastened to the bands with string, holsters sheathed all around him, and two furry sporrans.

I snatch the one closest to me.

I’m quick to unhook the lid and reach inside. My fingers dance around glass phials and cotton balls. I scoop out as much as I can grab in a handful, then spill the phials onto the cavern floor.

Tonics and balms glisten up at me—and one small phial of a plain white powder that, under the sunlight, will glitter with the magic it contains. But in the dim light of the cavern, it looks as ordinary as flour.

Snatching the phial, I bring it to my mouth and bite down on the cork. I tug it out—itpops.

The best way to administer the white powder for such a festering poison, one that’s had too much time to spider its waydeep into Ridge’s body, is to cook it into a liquid, then inject it into his tissue.

I don’t have time for that.

Ridge doesn’t have time.

Slumped over, a horrid wheezing sound escapes him.

I look up from the phial a mere moment before he falls onto his side—and hits the hard floor of the hollow with a thud.

My mouth twists with a grimace.

Breath pinned, I wait—wait for blood to spill from his head, now rested on the rocky floor. But no fresh streams of blood appear.

But there’s no relief to be had.

A breath ribbons from Ridge’s parted lips; his lashes flutter on the whites of his eyes—then his leg kicks with a twitch.

Life unribbons from him. He goes limp.

The panic jolts me forward, and I throw myself at him.

Stretched over his body, I reach into his mouth and pry it open. I pour the white powder down the back of his throat. The tickle of his tonsils clenches, a sign of life that lifts my brows over worried eyes.

I cover his mouth with my hand, then shove his jaw up. I push down on his face, shielding his mouth, his nose—stealing his breath.

His throat bobs.

I feel it against my forearm.

It bobs again, swallowing the white powder.

Still, I suffocate him. I deprive him of his air until his instincts take over and he’s swallowing down all the powder that dries out his mouth and tickles his throat.

---