Page 103 of The Dead Saint

No.

But if death was here for her, this was how she wanted to meet it.

* * *

“You can’t ask me to do this,” he whispered; the anguish was a crushing weight, threatening to bury him in the earth. The life he’d begun to see, the shape of the world with her beside him, was slipping away.

“I can’t do it without you,” she said, unspoken words lingering between them. Bring me death. Take it. You’re the only one who can. You’re the only one I want with me in this moment.

And if he didn’t? Revenant would step forward, and her last moments would be brutal—full of unnecessary pain. He couldn’t face that, knew that afterward he would draw his sword and cut into their bodies, hack and hack until their blood mixed with hers. Now, after all this, after all that had come before, all that he had been, he wasn’t sure he could face that either.

Sorcha pressed the dagger into his hand, the tremble in her fingers so slight it could have been his own. The moment in the woods when she’d faced him, determined to draw blood, twisted into this one, pulling horror and darkness from the air to cloud his vision.

He took the blade and stepped forward, sweeping her into his arms and gripping her tight.She buried her face in his neck, wet tears touching him, as his heart split open. This was the end. The end of everything.

“Now,” she whispered, mouth brushing his skin, a soft kiss sealing in the word.

In a few quick steps, he carried her to the relics and knelt with her in the golden circle. The room faded around them, a tense hush falling, even the thunder growing quiet. Adrian searched her face, taking her in—pale features, haunted eyes. The same woman who had melted with his touch, shattered in his arms, only to be woven back together. The woman he loved with a heart he hadn’t known he possessed. The woman who had walked out of a burning city to change his soul.

Sorcha took his hand, bringing the blade to her throat, tears in her eyes. Here. Her mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. Here.

The stone was cold beneath them, ice creeping into his bones—into the cavern left by his dying heart.

His chest heaved. There wasn’t enough air in the space, not enough light. Panic clawed at the back of his throat, pressure building behind his eyes.

Adrian shook his head, and she tightened her grip—knuckles white with desperation, her body pleading for action. The blade against her throat shivered and reflected the room—dancing light, gold, jewels, the story of the Saint in the ceiling above them.

“Adrian.” Sorcha placed a hand on his chest—gentle but firm—touching the spot where his heart was. Would be. If he had one. “Now.”

Swallowing, he pulled in a shaky breath and pressed his forehead to hers, squeezing his eyes tight. Blood pounded in his ears, his life without her spinning out—meaningless and bleak. Someone said his name, Prince Eine or Revenant. The priestess was talking to one of the other women. But those sounds came from another world, outside their trembling bubble.

“Sorcha,” he whispered. Her name was barely more than a whisper, only breath ghosting across her skin.

He kissed her, demanding this last offering, taking it when she opened her mouth and her tongue slid against his. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, even as he held the knife at her throat.

He broke the kiss, tasting tears, and spoke his last words into her mouth. “I love you.”

He drew the blade across her throat, parting flesh.

She gasped, the sound bubbling, rasping, as she fought to breathe.

He closed his eyes, holding her as warmth spread across his hands and chest. Holding on even as she struggled and shook, hands fluttering, horrible sounds coming from her. Then she slowed, movements growing weaker, until her hands stilled, and she went limp. He choked on a sob, terrible aching pain flooding him—blinding and relentless.

“Put her down.” The voice came from far away, and Adrian looked up to meet Revenant’s gaze. “Time to leave.”

Kira tugged at Sorcha’s body, bringing the shallow dish to her neck to collect blood.

He stayed on his knees, watching numbly as the woman ladled blood over the relics, as the blood flowed out of Sorcha to pool beneath the Saint.

Revenant pulled on Adrian’s shoulder, dragging him to his feet and away from the center of the room.

Adrian couldn’t look away from Sorcha—bloody and lifeless. Beautiful in the way a dried flower is—a dead thing, a mimic of the living. Her eyes stared into nothingness, mouth open, as blood continued to flow.

Kira worked quickly, arranging Sorcha on the floor, folding her arms, and then closing her eyes. Her blood was everywhere—all over him, all over the Saint, all over Kira where she knelt in it and smoothed it over the golden bones. Prince Eine bent down, running his fingers through it, and turned to smear it across his decaying mother.

Kill them. Kill them all. Kill them now.

Rage—the color of Sorcha’s blood—stole over him. It built, crashing through the cold places in his mind, tearing through the barriers.

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