Page 106 of Snag
She’s draining her life force.
Bellamy is formidable. She’d be even more powerful if she learned to pull power to her from natural, unlimited sources.
Against anyone but me.
“I won’t …” She gasps as if the words have been wrenched out of her depleted lungs. “I won’t be his any longer.”
I tilt my head, blinking as threads of destiny spark around us, as if called forth by Bellamy’s declaration. Presh, DeVille, and even Reck blaze in the corner of my eye. Layers of complex, multicolored threads of fate — of life force, as some call it — twine around each of them, binding them together, linking them with me, then streaming outward in all directions. So many vibrant paths extend from Precious specifically that —
“Look at me while you’re killing me,” Bellamy snarls, slumping against my easy hold on her wrist.
“That, you’re doing yourself,” I say mildly, though I do turn my attention back to her.
She laughs, already sounding near dead. “Can’t even grant me an easy death …”
The crack of bones and a muffled scream from the direction of the SUV let me know that Reck has coaxed DeVille back into his human form.
I take a moment to look at Bellamy’s threads. I’ve never met a dire awry before, and I still don’t remotelyunderstand why she needs to reach for power in her blood or in the life force of others in order to cast.
A thick rope of fate — quickly darkening to black under my gaze — is wrapped around her neck as if strangling her. A blackened tangle of threads is centered over her heart … all the edges seemingly … cauterized. I have to angle my head, peering out from the corners of my eyes to catch a glimmer of the cobweb-gray threads that stretch toward Presh. I assume they extend to Reck as well. The sibling bonds.
A single thread stretches from Bellamy directly to me. I cup my free hand around it.
“What are you doing?” Bellamy shudders under my hold. Involuntarily reacting to the touch of my power, rather than trying to get away from me. “What are you doing?” she repeats. Her voice is thin, but … awed?
“Presh!” Reck shouts. “Fuck!”
Rapid footfalls herald Precious’s approach, and then she’s at my side with all her glorious destiny blazing around her.
“Zaya, please,” she pleads.
I close my hand around the thread that ties Bellamy to me. Are we linked in this moment simply because I’m holding her upright as she dies? Or are we linked because —
“Zaya!” Presh reaches for me. No, for us. She hovers her hand over where I’m still holding Bellamy’s arm aloft.
“Don’t touch her, Precious,” Bellamy snarls, protective and fierce even with her dying breath. And that’s a choice in and of itself, isn’t it?
What a tangle of lies Bellamy has woven. An uneven and patchy tapestry. What did the dire awry do when she was called to the compound and found that a cage had been set up for her little sister…
Did Bellamy even know she had siblings before that?
Did she help Precious escape?
The younger awry seemed to slip away from Federation territory so easily, even if she mixed up the train stops. Did Bellamy have a hand in that, only to then be tasked with getting Precious back?
She’s desperate now. And not because she’s dying.
Dying might honestly be a relief for her, though Bellamy’s too fierce to admit that, even to herself.
The tangle of cauterized threads over her heart expands … almost as if it’s taking a breath. Then a half-dozen of the ends waver, lifting, reaching …
“You’ve been killing yourself one thread of fate at a time.” My voice is remote, weighted with power. “Every time you sacrifice another for energy, you kill a little more of yourself.”
Precious shudders. The hand hovering over mine shakes. “Please, Zaya …” she whispers.
Bellamy sobs, just once. In grief and fear.
But not for herself.
