Page 78 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

Of the vicious hot tears she left on the face, even when she disappeared and it was just Ambra.

In front of her, Bianchi cowers away, her hands above her head.

“Misia,” Ambra starts, and she hadn’t let herself speak, think, or remember the name, “was already dead by then.”

Ambra snaps a bit of her power out, grabbing onto the wood of the chair, a provincial carved bit of decoration, old with age, and shreds it, sending shards around the kitchen, peppering into Bianchi’s arms.

It doesn’t help, even when Bianchi screams.

Standing there, in the kitchen, all the power in herhands and all the control possible, and Ambra still aches with the uselessness of that exam table.

“I didn’t know,” Bianchi rasps out, her heart beating so hard Ambra can see it pounding at her throat. “I didn’t know, I thought…I thought it was theoretical, they said you felt nothing.”

“And you believed them?” Ambra growls, taking a step forward, and the magic swirls around her feet, kicking up splinters of wood. “You would believe someone like that? You would—”

A rush behind her, a tangle of motion, and Gurlien grabs her hand.

Ambra jerks, but he grips her tight, and she catches a glimpse of the white of his eyes behind his glasses, of his face devoid of color, of fear drawing lines sharp next to his lips.

He’s still untouched, the shards of wood no match for her shield, and he stares at her.

And he doesn’t have to say a word, his hand in hers.

Ambra lets the power seep away from her, lets it relax back into its place, and Bianchi whimpers.

Gurlien inclines his head at her, and she’s not sure why, but it’s some sort of recognition, some sort of acknowledgment of her.

“Give us your maps,” Gurlien says, and his voice is quiet in the aftermath. “Give us your maps and all your research on the defense.”

“Desk drawer, false bottom, scroll protector,” Bianchi blurts out, pointing. “Everything’s there, take everything, please.”

Gurlien nods, then squeezes Ambra’s hand, before stepping into the other room.

Leaving Bianchi and Ambra alone, Ambra turns her attention back towards her.

“If you tell anyone I was here, I will know,” Ambra says, as neutral as she can, her voice still tight and sore. “I will know and I will kill you then.”

Bianchi’s already nodding along, her face screwed up and turned away, her eyes squeezed shut. “I didn’t know,” she repeats.

Ambra forces herself to take a step back, and she had cracked the very tile she had stood on.

“Nalissa knew,” Ambra says, into the silence only broken by Bianchi’s harsh breathing. “Korhonen knew. Rastian knew. Johnsin knew.”

“Oh my god,” Bianchi whispers. “Oh my god.”

Then, finally, she lifts her head, and streaks of blood have mixed with sawdust and tears.

Something similar to shame eats at Ambra, worming its way into her gut.

“Nalissa tried three other times after you,” Bianchi says, and a chill shoots down Ambra’s spine. “They’re beneath her catacombs. She wanted full control. None of them were successful.”

Ambra rocks back on her heels, as Bianchi watches her.

Gurlien emerges from the other room, carrying three poster protectors, the type found in art stores to protect drawings.

“You’ll find more like you,” Bianchi continues, “but wrong. Corpses that you could have been.” Incongruent, she hiccups, and a few more tears run down the sludge on her face. “I didn’t know, I thought it was humane.”

And here Ambra stands, a living, breathing example about how none of it was humane.

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