Page 16 of The Huntsman's Heart
There’s no way for her to survive it. Not out here. Every minute she bleeds freely out here is a call to every beast—every monster in the woods. And being eaten alive as they fight over her would be worse than a swift, merciful end.
Shutting my eyes against the pain in her face, I plunge my sword straight into her chest again, deep into her center where her still-beating heart pulses in its final spasms.
Her red lips part in a silent gasp.
Then she leans forward against the thrust, glaring at me, forcing it deeper still. “Pathetic.”
Shaken, I tug my blade free. The princess collapses, and for a moment I’m frozen, staring at the evidence of what I’ve done. Blood froths at her mouth, bubbling from pretty lips.
I didn’t have to kill her. She could have lived. But her impulsive nature saw to her own downfall better than I had the heart to.
I drop to my knees, wanting at once to hold her and offer her my own neck. As I lean close to check if the deed has been accomplished or not, she draws in a final fractured breath. “I will haunt you in the next…life…kill you and your mistress.”
I hope she does. Hope to the gods she can.
Suddenly I know what to do. While the last warmth seeps from her broken body, I thrust my hand deep into her chest, through the gash I’ve made. Her flesh tears further. My arm is washed in her red blood, but there's nothing clean about this act.
My hand closes around her fluttering heart. With a swift twist, I yank it from her body and stare at the bloody pulsing thing fluttering in my palm.
I speak the words that will turn her from this into the curse that I walk, into a creature of night, of darkness. I call down the curse in her too.
Am I making the right choice? Most likely not.
I’m making a selfish choice, yet again. A desperate choice.
But there is no one else who can end this curse for me.
Her body gives one final shudder. Then it is done. Too late to turn back or regret my decision.
I sit in silence, clasping her heart in my hand until the blood stops seeping from her cold body. The body which will never be warm again.
The heart retains a faint warmth in my palm as if to remind me what I’ve stolen from her. Even as I watch, it turns from luscious red to a dull, dead gray as the last of the blood drains from severed arteries.
Though she no longer needs it beating, her heart is no less important to her now that my spell has turned it into her phylactery.
When I drew down this curse on myself and became a lich, I cut my own heart from my body to perform the ritual. But Imade the mistake of handing it to Melantha. Little did I know the power it would give her over me.
If I had guessed then at her true nature, I might have guessed whatever plans she had for me would not be for my benefit, but I was blinded by her beauty.
Melantha wants me to give her the girl’s heart too—proof I have done what she sent me to do. If I were to give her this heart, she would know instantly what I’ve done, and she would have power over Guinevere in the same way she has over me. That can never be allowed to happen.
Traditionally, the phylactery is kept in a box, buried in a secret place, hidden to preserve the unnatural immortal state of the creature bound to it. The princess’s chest is already knitting closed, the unholy magic which made her a lich stitching her back together as if I never harmed her.
Impulsively, I plunge the heart back into the empty cavity of her chest. I don’t know if this will work the way I hope. There’s no real way to know. Only a desperate chance I must take.
She lets out a long moan, though her eyes remain closed. A last congealing drop of blood clings to my hand as I pull it free of her body. Under my gaze, the gash closes, leaving only the traces of a scar. No going back now.
Unlike me, she will be free of Melantha’s control. I may have stolen her future, but I can at least leave her with this—a chance at freedom. A chance at revenge.
I straighten, taking a last look at my grim handiwork. She cursed me with her dying breath, not knowing I am already cursed.
Will she do as she promised and hunt me down? Will she find a way to end it?
Not that I deserve her pity, I don’t. But perhaps her hatred will serve me as well. Perhaps hatred can cure me from my cursed love.
Guinevere
The first thing I am aware of is the way my body aches and I can barely feel my hands and feet. I try to sit, but a stabbing pain in my center draws a sharp cry, and I subside into the dirt once more. A rush of nervous energy shoots through me. I raise my hand to my throat, expecting to feel my pulse racing, but there is nothing.
