Page 157 of The Call of Crimson
Cillian looks puzzled, while Elijah just looks… sullen. He pulls me into his chest, wrapping an arm around my middle and holding me close.
“Ophelia, whatever you just saw…” Elijah says into my hair, running his hand up and down my back. “It wasn’t real.”
“What do you mean? Of course it is,” I argue, heat creeping up my throat. “I know what my own father looks like.”
“I know you do, sweetheart. But I need you to look again. Really look. And tell me what you see.”
Pushing out of his hold, I turn back towards the lifeless male.
“What color is his hair?” Elijah prompts.
“Brown,” I answer without hesitation.
“And his eyes?”
“Gray—just like mine.”
“Look again, O.”
I look again, blinking several times as the gray shifts, softening into a steely blue rather than gray. “They’re not gray,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“What else do you see?”
I study the body again. The face is still misshapen, but the features are clear enough. A strong brow, a thin scar dissecting the left at its arch. His nose was long, but slightly crooked, likely broken at some point. That wasn’t right. My father’s nose had been perfectly straight. Then I notice the birthmark just above the male’s cheek.
My breath catches. “That’s not my father.”
“No, it’s not,” Elijah says gently. “We burned him alongside your brother and Queen Genevieve two months ago.”
“Oh gods,” I gasp, stumbling back a step into Elijah’s arms.
“Breathe, Ophelia,” he urges.
But I can’t. A sob tears through me, jagged and raw. “I killed someone I don’t even know.”
“Shhh,” Elijah soothes, pulling me tighter, trying to quiet the hysteria clawing at my throat.
“Elijah, I killed someone. I killed an innoce?—”
“Oh, he was far from innocent,” Cillian chimes in, cutting me off. He’s standing right behind us now, close enough for me to notice his clove and vanilla scent.
I twist in Elijah’s arms and reach for Cillian, my fingers fisting in his tunic. “What do you mean?”
“He was a spy,” Cillian replies without hesitation, meeting my gaze head-on.
The tension in my shoulders bleeds away, replaced by a rush of relief. Guilt still lingers, but it no longer threatens to choke me. I can live with this. I can live with ending the life of someone who may have taken others.
“You could have led with that, asshole,” Elijah mutters, prying my hand from Cillian’s shirt and lacing our fingers together.
“I was getting there.” Cillian shrugs. “But the littlegoddess of deathkind of interrupted my explanation. Not that I’m complaining, much, because watching you end his life was like watching a piece of art come to life. I’m only slightly annoyed that you stole my job and killed the bastard before I could.”
“You can keep your job.” I shudder. “It makes my skin crawl.”
“That’s not how it looked from here, darling.”
My cheeks flush, my eyes dropping from his to the spot on the floor that had suddenly become interesting. I can’t face the truth in his words.
The thought of ending an innocent life is abhorrent to me, but ending that life didn’t feel wrong. I feel the best I have in days. But that isn’t a truth I can speak aloud.
