Page 40 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

Snow settles on the shaved side of her head, sticking uncomfortably to her scalp, but she can’t move. Not when the very foundation of the ground, the concrete and the cinder blocks that were below the motorhome are cracked so deeply that nothing will ever sit easily on this place ever again.

“Ambra,” Gurlien murmurs, and the sound of his voice makes the hair on the back of her neck rise. “Ambra, what was that?”

She doesn’t tear her eyes away from the single smoldering sleeve of the sweater. It had been one that the body cherished, one she wore to all of the early meetings with the College, before they both knew what they had gotten themselves into. Back when the whole adventure had been new and fun and they had been together.

Only two people left alive would know to put that sweater there.

The nerves of her shoulder lock up, but she keeps her head high.

“Is there anything you can think of to salvage?” Ambra asks, and even her voice is remote, like it’s yet another part of her that is alien and uncontrollable.

Gurlien exhales, strong, pushing his hair away from his face, grim, as he surveys the wreckage.

And she wishes, for one brief, wild moment, that she could see it through his eyes. Without the shreds of her runes, without the emotions of the clothing. Just as a place of destruction and fast accumulating snow and a sky that’s quickly darkening towards night.

He’s quiet for a few moments too long, so she grips him harder on the wrist and teleports again.

The small condois perfectly intact, with the streetlights merrily shining through the window and a neighbor walking a dog outside.

And no disturbances to her wards, no disruptions to the floor, nothing.

Her knees pick that moment to buckle underneath her, and she clatters onto the hardwood floor, barely catching herself on the boring wooden table before she smashes her head against the ground.

Gurlien, breathing hard, sets down the bags he’s still carrying, and his hands are shaking.

“This place is okay,” Ambra says, and her legs don’t want her to stand, so she lets her head rest against the floor.

He clutches at his wrist, right at where the leash is, and a tired, weary thrust of fear stabs through her heart.

She struggles to at least sit up, but all at once it’s like the body has had enough. Enough of the pain, enough of theemotions, enough of the walking and activity. “You’ll be safe here, at least for a little while.”

Instead of walking away, he crouches next to her, and there’s some ash on the hem of his new pants, incongruous.

Ash from the smolders of the motorhome.

Gentle, he places a hand behind her shoulder, guiding her to sit up and lean against the leg of the table, and her chest tightens, almost trembling from the effort.

She’s weak. She thought she had been regaining strength, she thought she had been getting better.

“What sort of shield was that?” he murmurs, as he presses the back of his hand to her forehead, and his hand is chilled, cooler than her skin. “Never seen that before.”

“Just a…normal shield?” she answers, voice lilting up. It’s not the question he should be asking.

“Hell of a normal,” he says, then moves the hand to the shaved side of her scalp, where it prickles at his touch.

“I don’t know when they got there,” she continues on, as if purging the words from her system will help. “I don’t know how they shredded my wards, I don’t know—”

He holds up his other hand and she falls silent.

“Are you injured?” he asks instead, it’s a logical question, what with her literally sitting on the floor and shaking. “I didn’t see any fire get through, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Careful, he checks the back of her head, moving her neck forward in some gentle sort of inspection.

She has to swallow down the lump. “No.” She fists her hands by her sides, and they, at least, follow her command. “Not anything that’s new. Just the pain from Johnsin.”

He nods, as if that confirms his suspicions. “And can you tell who blew up your safe spot?” His hands still soft, he reaches down and holds her wrist, counting the beats of the heart against the thin skin next to the bones.

“Humans,” she answers, voice rough. “Not another demon. They knew…” she bursts out, then squeezes her eyes shut.

Gentle, so gentle she barely feels it, he reaches up and slides the tinted glasses off her nose, and it startles her out of the anger.

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