Page 18 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I try to override my faculties. Deflect Lucian’s guilt. Suppress the boy’s words.
But nothing can keep the boy out.
He hovers like a rain cloud, waiting to be released.
“You shouldn’t have opened the door,”the boy tells me.“You aren’t ready to bear the pain. Not this time.”
From the corners of my eyes, I see him, as if his shadow lingers in my room. I flinch, searching for his figure, but he isn’t there. He couldn’t possibly be. He’s trapped within the confines of my mind.
Heismy mind.
I take a deep breath, warding against my insanity, even as I argue with myself.“Azaire would certainly die without me.”
“He’s going to die either way, love.”
The words are a heavy blow. There’s no other way to say it than: they hurt.
And Azaire hurts, more than I could possibly imagine. He’s barely holding on to life. Taking so little breath that I can’t feel him.
Even in my mind, my voice shatters as I ask,“You don’t believe in me?”
“Doyoubelieve in you?”
For a moment, I am nothing but still. Frozen as I watch Azaire, dangling in Lucian’s arms—and I shift under the weight of expectation.
Of undesired outcomes.
“I have no choice,”I answer, despite the boy being right. Idon’tbelieve. I think Azaire is going to die. I’ve never been able to save a soul.
But Ihaveto.
I’ve never had the chance to try to save someone I care about. Now, I do. There’s no choice, and even if there were, I wouldn’t choose any different.
“Put him on the bed.” I nod to Lucian as I turn away from the mess. I approach my closet, pulling out my tray of herbs, then hand Lucian a bottle of valerian root, instructing, “Put this in his nose and mouth.”
It’s imbued with magic and should keep Azaire unconscious, which will keep me focused in case he wakes while I work.
I hover my hands over Azaire’s body—just as I had in class—feeling for the worst of it.
I can’t feel any of it.
After a deep breath, my heart still does not slow.
But I won’t stop trying.
I pick up his hand. It’s burnt to nothing but raw skin. There must be severe nerve damage. What if I can’t fix that, and he never uses his hand again?
His injury courses through my body, burning me. My hand grows sticky beneath my glove. Is it my magic, his wounds, or my worry?
Moving my attention away from Azaire, I flick through my glass jars once more, searching for a salve made of comfrey to even the burns. As soon as I locate it, I rub the brown substance into Azaire’s hand. The skin sizzles.
I smile.
Itsizzles. That means it’s healing. The blood in his veins is still moving.
It’s the smallest of victories, the slightest sign of lasting life, and I clutch to it, moving to the burns on his wrist, then his shoulders. The welted and raw skin slowly smooths.
I release a breath of relief, taking off my gloves. Green tendrils of energy coil around my fingers, like living vines, each one sprouting jagged thorns. I lower my hands, desperate to conceal my power from Lucian. I’m sure he’s witnessed many Eunoias harness their abilities before—and none of them have thorns.
