Page 115 of The Call of Crimson
Their grief would be short-lived.
I take the hand of the next female—she’s older with a willowy frame, black hair, and green eyes.
“What do they call you?” I ask.
“My name is Mallory.”
I squeeze her hand gently. “You’re incredibly brave, Mallory.”
“I know that, boy,” she says, full of sass even at the hour of her death. “Now get to it. I have a husband waiting for me.”
I chuckle lightly. “Yes, ma’am.”
She closes her eyes before my Gift even begins its job. Within moments, her head rolls to the side as her heart makes its final beat.
Exhaling, I turn to the final female. I’m immediately thrown back in time as I take her in.
Strawberry blonde hair, sky blue eyes, tall and beautiful. Her resemblance to Genevieve is startling.
Before I can ask, she tells me, “My name is Jenny.”
Something fractures in my chest.
This must be the gods playing a cruel joke.
“Hi, Jenny,” I croak.
“I’m ready,” she rasps painfully.
I take her hand. “Any last requests?”
“Actually, can you hold me?”
My heart sputters in my chest. I nod. “Of course.”
Pulling the stranger who feels so familiar into my chest, I hold her tightly. She trembles slightly, so I rock her back and forth until her body calms.
“I wouldn’t change anything,” she admits quietly. “But I’m also afraid to die.”
“That’s normal, Jenny.” I squeeze her arm in gentle reassurance. “I promise it won’t hurt. It’ll feel like falling asleep, slowly at first, then all at once.”
“Thank you,” Jenny whispers.
“From your first breath until your very last,” I whisper the words from the death hymn, hoping they provide some modicum of peace as I let my Gift unfurl and wind through her blood. “May the gods grant you peace.”
I find her heart, stopping the flow slowly at first. Her lids grow heavy, unconsciousness claiming her in the next moment. Then I stop it entirely, the last breath escaping her lips as her head droops against my chest.
I can’t help but stroke the strawberry-blond tendrils around her face, still rocking her back and forth.
Memory crashes over me like an unwelcome house guest.
Blood dribbled down the corners of Gen’s pale lips, the poisoned wine working too quickly. Blue eyes locked on Breyla.
“I love you, Mom,” Breyla rasped. “I’m sorry I never said it enough.”
“I love you, too,” Genevieve told her daughter through a wheezing breath. “Your father and I are both so proud of you. Keep making us proud.”
The blood dripped from every orifice now. Her time was coming to an end.
