Page 17 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I rise, stepping toward the door and reaching for the knob. The boy in my head cuts me off, his voice slicing through my thoughts.“Don’t open the door.”
At his words, I stop—even though I have a feeling I shouldn’t.“Why not?”I ask.
“It will be too much for you to take.”
“Are you there?” Lucian calls.
My hand settles on the knob.
“Don’t,”the boy warns.
I push him away, and he evaporates like smoke in the wind.
Then I open the door. Two bodies stagger into my room—Lucian holding up Azaire. He’s broken and battered—but worse than the bruises, he’s unreachable. Completely cut off.
A blank slate.
An empty page.
Azaire—the steady boy, the peaceful man, unable to be felt.
Is he about to die? Is that what this means? Or is he already dead? It’s only upon death that I’ve been unable to feel a person.
They were gone. There was nothing to feel.
I never saw them again.
Dead.
I can feel the boy at the edges of my mind, waiting to swoop in and tell me he was right. Thisistoo much to take. It’s the last thing I need to hear right now. Even the figments of my imagination don’t knowwhat’s good for me.
“Oh my gods.”
I don’t realize I’ve fallen into the dresser until Lucian asks, “Can you heal him?”
Air clogs in my throat until it becomes impossible to take in. I stare at Azaire—the burns on his arms. The barely-there breath in his chest.
The empty mind. The lack of emotion.
It makes it impossible to focus on anything other than Lucian. The prince is desperate. Beneath it, he’s guilty. That is the emotion I feel the most of, until slowly, the desperation dissipates, andallI can feel is Lucian’s guilt.
Ihateguilt.
It seeps through like gas. Poison through the cracks in my doors. The lock is not tight enough.
The knob is ever turning.
I am everyone else before I’m myself.
I focus on Azaire, searching for anything. He’s not dead. He’s still breathing, however little air he’s taking in. Isn’t that steadiness still there? Even now, with uncertainty pressing in, he’s still himself, isn’t he?
But there’s nothing there.
“He’s going to die,”the boy says.“Just like Xander.”
“Why can’t I feel him?” I ask Lucian. My lip quivers, and I pull it between my teeth, needing for it to still.
Lucian’s voice is a whimper. “Please.”
