Page 60 of Cursed Shadows 4

Lost in a fever dream, he will suffer his grief, his failures, his torments for hours to come.

I can’t help him.

It’s the price we pay for the powders.

I curl up against the wall and let my lashes fall.

The faint splash of water wakes me with a start.

A dusky light has settled over the cavern. Narrow, damp walls and the foliage stacked up against the entrance dims my surroundings.

I frown at the undisturbed foliage a moment.

Tucked under the brown leaves, a juvenile cricket chirps. I eye it for a moment, the peculiar gloss of its skin, a pinkish sort of white, not unlike the flesh of faerie hounds.

Its chirps should irk me.

Back home, I would stomp on paths and in gardens to silence the critters. I hate them, ever since one jumped into my braids and tried to nest in there, I have loathed them.

But I don’t make any move to crush it with my boot.

Its chirps, its calls to a potential mate nearby, is an advantage I’m not foolish enough to overlook.

Its silence will alert me to trouble.

I leave it be and slump against the wall.

An uncomfortable rash-like sensation tickles my chin, and so I know I have drooled through my dreams.

With the back of my gloved hand, I wipe at my face and drag my heavy gaze around the hollow. Drowsiness clings to my sight, a glaze over the rocks I should see sharply, but all I see is a stone-grey blur.

I blink through the weariness.

Each flutter of the lashes sharpens my sight a touch more, and soon I can make out the outline of Ridge, the steady rise and fall of his chest, his unmoving arms sprawled at his sides. He has moved again, rolled onto his back, and he has stopped murmuring about his lost Luna.

An echo of his pain is cold in my chest. The mere thought of losing my soul brother, my Eamon, it’s enough to singe an acidic burn down my throat.

I can’t wallow on things like that, can’t let my mind be distracted. One of the reasons I pushed Eamon to run.

If I’m too distracted by my worry of him, then I am at risk. Even more than I already am.

Ridge’s presence is no comfort.

I am the defender of us both in this cavern.

He is no use to me, not while the white powder has him.

The white powder keeps hold of a fae for less time than the black powder. I suppose he will wake soon, maybe within the hour, though time is hard to count out here with a different sky.

But when he does wake, he will want for water.

The thirst will be sandpaper down his throat.

I grab the pack that’s nestled under the bend of my knees. It snags on the heel of my boot, but with a huff and a hard pull, it whacks me on the chest.

My hands fist on the leather flap, ready to tug it open—then I hear it.

Silence.

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