Page 32 of Alchemised
Helena collapsed, breathing unsteadily, hands and wrists throbbing.
“Did you think I didn’t know you’d try to kill yourself?” Ferron asked venomously. “As if there’s anything the Eternal Flame loved more than dying for their causes.”
“I thought you liked us dead.” Her head hurt so much, she wanted to vomit.
He gave a barking laugh. “Consider yourself the sole exception to that rule. The High Necromancer wants your secrets, and until he has them, you will not die.”
He glanced around her room, and his eyes seemed to glow.
He closed them, shaking his head. “I thought transference would be enough for one night, but it seems you’re determined to make this as difficult for yourself as possible.”
He leaned over her.
Helena stared at him in dread.
“Let’s see what other ideas you’ve had.” His cold fingers pressed against her temple.
It wasn’t transference, and she was so relieved that she almost relaxed when she realised he was only violating her memories.
His resonance swept through her mind like a breeze, sending her thoughts fluttering.
He moved slowly. Instead of a long pass across time, he took interest only in recent events, winding through her memories like a current.
He seemed to pore over every detail. Exploring her room. The way the hallway frightened her, and her musings over him and his family. Her attempts at exercise.
When he finally stopped, the blood on her face had dried in tracks down her cheeks.
“Industrious as always,” he said mockingly, pulling his hand away.
Her jaw clenched.
He was still leaning over her, hand pressed into the mattress by her head. “Do you really think you can trick me into killing you?”
She stared stonily at the canopy.
“You’re welcome to try.” He turned to leave, then paused as if just remembering something. “Don’t enter my room again. If I want to deal with you, I’ll come here.”
Once he was gone, Helena didn’t move.
She hadn’t placed much faith in her plans. She’d known the odds of success were impossibly small, and yet she’d tried to convince herself otherwise. Luc wouldn’t give up. If it were him, he’d fight to the very last. How could she betray him by doing less?
But Luc was dead.
No matter what she did, it wouldn’t bring him back.
Her shivering grew uncontrollable. She curled onto her side, burrowing into the bedding. The wounded feeling in her head grew until it was a sinkhole drawing her inwards, her skin growing taut like a membranous exoskeleton.
The sheets became damp with her sweat as her fever rose. Her body was freezing, but her brain was on fire.
Time morphed, twisting, and she lost track of everything beyond her misery.
There were voices. So many voices. Vile things were poured down her throat, making her gag, burning concoctions that blistered her organs. Hot and cold and slimy things on her skin. She was picked up and plunged into ice-cold water, dragged out to breathe, and then shoved under again.
Her mind burned on like an ember, charring everything around it.
There were needles. Little pricks she hardly felt, then large agonising lances of pain that punctured her arms.
The pain in her head grew until it blotted out all thought.
