Page 131 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

Maison steps back, shaking out his hands, even though he’s not feeling any discomfort. “Just willpower, no verbal,” he says, like he’s reminding himself more than her. “Just instinct.”

Gurlien had repeated it in overwhelming detail during their drive, and Delina’s fairly certain she has the concept down, but it’s…different. With Maison like this, so obviously in the palm of her hand, invisible to everyone else and yet brimming with power.

She inhales. That’s what it is, that’s what the off sensation of his body is. He’s full of power, overflowing with it, bleeding into the ground below him and the forest floor, over the dusting of snow and the moss, the dead leaves, the dirt and the worms and the decay.

And she, in theory, should be able to control it.

Maison’s face twitches, like he could absorb her thoughts and experience them as well like this.

Who knows, maybe he can.

Before she can psych herself out, she lets her eyes fall on a tree. There’s a bird's nest on it, empty and cold, and the sap moves sluggish through the core of the wood. Frost glitters along the needles, weighed down by the snowfall.

So she reaches out through the nebulous tether between her and Maison, and he jerks in response, like she grabbed him with a brand and…points.

He jerks again, and the tree explodes.

Just explodes, showering them with splinters too small to hurt, needles flying everywhere. The snow, so previously weighing down the branches, powders through the air, catching the dying rays of the sun and shimmering.

For one beautiful, heartbreaking moment, it’s perfect. Just power and carnage and…hers.

The cat yowls in Chloe’s arm, and pain blooms in the back of Delina’s mind as he digs his claws into Chloe’s shoulder. Gurlien grabs Chloe, pulling her back with his bad hand, sending an ache down his wrist.

And Maison’s still, so perfectly still, like he’s been carved out of the very stone underneath the dirt.

“You okay?” Delina calls back to Chloe and Gurlien, but none of the trees hit them, just a small dusting of sawdust coloring their hair.

Both their eyes are wide, panicked, but Gurlien nods, swallowing.

“And you?” Delina asks, but Maison’s motionless, as if he’s not even breathing, his eyes full of light. “Maison?”

There’s a beat, a moment, before he stirs, blinking, his lips parting.

“Is that what it’s supposed to feel like?” he asks, wonder behind his voice. “Is that…”

“No idea, are you okay?”

He blinks over to her.

“Any other tests needed?” Delina asks, the back of her neck prickling once more. There’s something wrong here, some sort of danger she’s not fully realizing, and despite the hours spent in the car, she’s itching to get back to relative safety.

Gurlien opens his mouth to reply, then closes it, shaking his head.

“Okay, Maison,” Delina turns back to him, and he’s so still another shiver goes up her neck. “Time to go; something’s wrong.”

He tilts his head at her, and the single motion is inhuman.

“Okay,” Delina breathes, and he reaches his hand out to her, all at once a familiar and so foreign of an action. “Maison…”

The hand reaching out to him is the one she tied the death around, so she lets her fingertips trace on that golden ribbon on his wrist, and he shivers.

“You’re not in danger,” he says, voice almost disgruntled, and it, at least, is familiar.

“You can tell right now?” Delina asks, and he inclines his head in a single nod.

“Nothing here will harm you.”

She narrows her eyes at him, still letting her fingertips rest on the golden chain, which twists under her touch, almost responding to her in the chill air. “Is this,” she starts, and even with that little contact, goosebumps raise on his arm, “something to do with that bond?”

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