Page 71 of A Deal with the Shadow King

“Don’t worry, Cece. He’ll feel better in a minute.” I climb over the fence, wishing I wasn’t wearing such a big dress, the thick skirts slowing me down.

Firenze’s ears turn toward me with interest, and I raise my hand to his muzzle. “Hey, you. Don’t worry, I’m here now.”

Willing myself not to notice the fetid smell coming from his front limb, I press my hand to it and jolt backwards, startled by the feel of it. It’s colder than I expected, and stiff as stone. Firenze barely holds his weight upon it, his other leg trembling at the effort.

Closing my eyes, I draw magic from the mud, the earth, the fence and the prickly hay. I summon it from the wood of the barn and the warmth of the sun itself, from Gerald and Cece and Esme… I draw magic from everything in sight, and feel emptier still.

The wound remains as deadly as it was, so I try again, without success.

“What’s going on?” Cece asks, but I shush her.

“Give me a minute.”

I try again. And again.

My fingertips blacken, and ice runs thick in my veins, but I continue to try until I’m covered in sweat. To no avail.

Finally, I search the pasture and muddy fields as though I might summon One to my side by just thinking about him. The mirror in the basement of the summer house comes to mind.

“I could ask for help—” I whisper.

Esme squeezes my shoulder, and her sudden proximity sends my heart into a frenzy. “You can’t heal what is already dead, darling. No one can. Not even the most powerful Fa—of our Mother’s disciples.”

No. I’m here. I made it in time. There must be something?—

I give it my all in one last attempt. My belly cramps, my hands cold and clammy like I’m running a bad fever, and my whole body starts to shake. Dark lines creep up my hands like poison ivy slithering up my arms, the shadow magic taking more than it gives as I stretch it to its breaking point.

Esme clears her throat. “Enough, Miss Penny. You will exhaust yourself.” The warning is thick in her voice.

I’ll soon be engulfed in darkness and alert everyone to the true nature of my powers. I wouldn’t mind it if I thought it could save Firenze, but I can feel the magic threatening to freeze me to the core without giving much in return.

Firenze nuzzles my side weakly, as though asking what’s going on… The joy at making it here on time crashes and burns into a volcano of dread in my chest.

“Nell?” Cece squeaks.

The terrible truth falls like a blanket of snow over my well-crafted denial. “I can’t heal him… It’s too late.”

Cece flattens her palm to her mouth and croaks, “No.”

The white stallion neighs softly, and my heart breaks at the familiarity and gentleness of the sound.

“If only we’d come sooner,” I add, full of regrets.

Gerald nods with his lips pursed in a sad, resigned frown. “It’s not your fault, princess. I’ve been delaying the inevitable, hoping your miracle could save the poor boy again, but he’s suffered enough.” He pats down his horse’s neck. “Here ye go. Good horse. Ye’ll be alright now.”

The old farmer is no doubt used to these kinds of things, but Firenze is his favorite horse, and so his voice is not quite as steady as I’m sure he wishes it to be.

Firenze lets out a heavy breath, and I bury my face in his mane, my arms wrapped around his neck. The smell of him is like summer and sunshine… Grass and the carefree joy of a child in a prairie, being taught to gallop for the first time.

Cece does the same on the other side, crying in earnest. We stay there in stunned despair for a minute, holding him tightly.

“Do you wish to leave, Your Highnesses?” Gerald asks, signaling that the moment has come. The disappointment written in the bend of his brows is so thick, I can’t bear the thought that I gave this poor man false hope.

Cece clutches Firenze harder. “No, we want to stay until the end,” she declares with a determination that will not be denied.

“Come and stand behind me then. The both of ye.” The click of his pistol turns my stomach.

Esme looks at Firenze with her brows lifted and a weirdly upbeat smile. “Biology is a marvelous thing. In the face of infection, the body separates itself from the threat by cutting the blood flow to the limb.”

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