Page 107 of Snag
“Please,” the dire awry quietly begs. “Don’t hurt her … don’t hurt … sister …”
Precious lays her hand over mine, angling her head to catch my attention. She reaches up and pulls off my sunglasses, tucking them away in the pocket of her lilac hoodie. When she meets my gaze, her eyes reflect the purple nebulas blazing from my own eyes. “Zaya. If Bellamy goes back to him, he’ll force her to make more of those berserkers. To make up for the ones we all killed.”
I look back at Bellamy. She’s pale, wavering on her feet. Blood no longer drips from her arms. That tangle of blackened threads over her heart rustles again, reaching out for…
Precious?
“What do you see?” I ask the young awry.
“You,” she whispers reverently. She squeezes my hand lightly. “You are so beautiful.”
I laugh, completely involuntarily. Only Precious could gaze at all the power I carry — both great and terrible, as Reck mockingly called it — and call me beautiful. “What do you see of your sister?”
She swallows, then turns her gaze to Bellamy. “She’s dying.”
“Yes.”
Bellamy chuckles weakly, swaying forward and back. “I concur.”
Precious tightens her hold on me. I grip Bellamy, keeping her on her feet. The young awry raises her other arm. Her hand shakes as she points to Bellamy’s neck and then at her heart. “There and there …”
“Yes,” I say. “What do you want to do about it?”
“Fuck me,” Bellamy groans. “This is not a good time for a mentoring session.”
Precious glances back at me, eyes wide but not afraid. Determined. “Can we … remove the … bad essence?”
I step closer to Bellamy, lowering our arms between us as I do. Then I reach up and tug the noose of essence free from around her neck.
A strangled scream makes it through Bellamy’s clenched teeth. Her neck is bruised in a mottle of dark colors edged in yellow.
I look down at the rope in my hand. “Still dying.”
“Is that …” Presh bites her lip. “Is that …”
“Bellamy’s last strand of destiny,” I say, ignoring the thread that still links me to the dire awry because I’m not yet certain what to make of it. “It shouldn’t be black.”
“Um, okay.” Presh huffs. She narrows her eyes on the thread lying limply across my hand, then steps closer to gaze at the tangle of threads clustered over Bellamy’s heart.
Once more, a half-dozen or so of those threads shiver, their blackened tips reaching for Presh.
Energy shifts behind us a moment before Reck lays his hand on Precious’s shoulder. The red and deep orange of his life force coils around the both of us.
“I’m fine,” Presh snaps testily at her older brother. “Zaya is here.”
“Zaya,” Reck spits, “can’t be trusted when she’s otherwise occupied.”
I’m not certain what he means. And with the final weave of Bellamy’s fate displayed before me, I don’t remotely care.
Ah, right.
That’s what he means.
Still … this is all interesting …
“What do you see there, Presh?” I ask, nodding toward the knotted ball of threads over Bellamy’s heart.
“A … wound?” She hesitates, hovering her fingers just a few inches away. “Multiple wounds.”
