Page 89 of Mistress of Bones
Nereida came closer, the smile broadening, the Witch stiffening. “Ah,” she said, “but you are not my brother, are you?”
She plunged the blade into the Witch’s gut, and De Anví felt the body jerk in his arms, felt his own limbs stiffen in response and sweat gather at the back of his neck. Disbelief and relief warred inside him—that she had dared, and that it was over.
“I wonder what happens now,” Nereida said smoothly, her hand pushing the dagger farther in. “Will you die along with your host, Witch?”
The Witch hissed, and her body went lax in De Anví’s arms. He grunted and lowered her to the floor, propping her back against the crate.
Blood pooled from the wound when Nereida yanked the blade out. She made no move to stop the flow, and neither did De Anví. Hesimply looked at her, waiting for a cue. Would she turn the dagger on him now? He almost welcomed it. A much better way to die than what lay in wait for him—one did not cross the Witch, and one did not get rid of the Witch quite so easily.
“Nereida?” The rough words came out of the injured body, laced with pain, with shock, with regret—and warmth. Feelings the Witch was incapable of.
The Witch was gone.
Nereida knelt by the man’s side and grasped his hand. “Si-so.”
Sío de Guzmán looked down, blinked, then looked back at her, at the bloody dagger abandoned to the side. “Someone stabbed me?”
“It’s only temporary,” she assured him, and for the first time, De Anví wondered if he had done right in helping her. There was no coming back from this type of wound.
“No,” De Guzmán pleaded. He coughed and blood spattered on the beautiful white cravat, the cream-and-gold waistcoat, chosen by the Witch, no doubt, to mock the count. “No, Nida, let me die here.”
Nereida’s grip tightened. “It sounds impossible, but I promise you, you will come back to me soon enough.”
“I don’t doubt you,” De Guzmán answered after another bloody cough. He grimaced in pain when he tried to sit straighter, his free hand pressing against the wound. “You and Edine—you always got what you went after. But not this time, Nida. Let me die, finally.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Nereida told him roughly. “The Witch won’t have the opportunity to get her claws into you again. We’ll leave, and she will never force you into being her toy again.”
“I wasn’t a toy.”
“Of course you were. She stole your conscience and your body just to play one of her games.”
“I was willing.”
“What?”
Her brother’s pained gaze sought hers. “I entered the contract willingly, Nida. The Witch didn’t force me.”
Nereida dropped his hand like it was a red-hot coal. Sío tried to take hers back, but she wouldn’t let him.
“Explain,” she demanded, her face taking on a deathly pallor.
“Understand me, Sister, I beg of you. I had to find a way to forget.”
“Forget? Forget Edine?” she asked in disbelief. “Why would you want that?”
“No!” he exclaimed, and spat more blood onto his waistcoat. “I would never want to forget Edine.” He straightened, his eyes bright with urgency. “Don’t you see? She died because of me. It was my fault. I knew where she was going that night, Nereida. She came to me, worried Iriana was involved in treason against the king. I stood by, too scared to act. I chose to believe she was imagining things, and then I was too late to find her. They cut her down not three streets from me, and I could’ve stopped them! I could’ve stopped them but…” He slumped back, the sudden burst of energy gone. “I did nothing, Nida. Nothing. I stood there, a coward. I did nothing. I didn’t even have the guts to face her body. I let Iriana deal with it all.”
“No.” Nereida wiped tears from her cheeks, leaving a smear of blood across her skin. “Be quiet!” she cried when Sío tried to speak again. “It was not your hand that killed her. You were being used yourself. It’s what you like doing best, isn’t it?” she asked with fury. “Being used by others? Iriana, the Guard, the Witch?” Her mouth compressed into a thin line. Then, “It ends now. Now you get to live and undo your wrongs. Not by being someone’s toy and forgetting, but by living on.”
She raised her dagger and stabbed him in the chest. A slight miscalculation, a crack of a rib. De Anví slapped a panicked hand on Sío’s mouth, muffling his scream. Then Nereida leaned into the hilt and slid the blade all the way into her brother’s heart.
Sío went limp, head lolling to the side. De Anví removed his hand and wiped the red palm on Sío’s shirtsleeve.
“Why?” Nereida said in a shaky voice. “Why are you here?”
De Anví looked at her bowed head, yearned to take her face in his hands and tilt it upward—the position did not suit her.
“Why?” she demanded again, this time looking at him. “Why would you help me like this? Do you enjoy being a murderer too?”
