Page 88 of Fable for the End of the World

And then, all of a sudden, the pressure stops. I gasp, sucking in air as if I’ve just been pulled from the water. As my vision returns in shuddery increments, I see Lethe topple over. I push myself up onto my elbows and watch as she gutters out a noise of shock, clutching her shoulder.

Inesa stands over her, frozen. The handle of my knife sticks out of Lethe’s back.

Woozy, still trying desperately to catch my breath, I clamber to my feet. White-hot pinpricks of pain shoot through my temple and behind my eyes. Every breath scrapes and grinds my raw throat.

Lethe is doubled over, wheezing. When she looks up at me, she smiles, blood in the crevices between her shining white teeth.

“Too late,” she whispers.

As quick as a strike of lightning, her fingers find her sleek, white-gold knife. And with her very last breath, she hurls it forward. Even on the brink of death, her aim is perfect. The rifle is my weapon, but the knife is hers. I have no time to react. I can only watch as she gives one last, ghostly grin and then slumps over, unmoving. I can only watch as Inesa runs toward me, hair streaming out behind her, the hem of her white dress damp with melted frost.

“No,” she’s saying, over and over again, “no, no, no—”

I look down. Lethe’s knife is buried in my stomach. A stain spreads slowly over my hunting suit, turning the fabric an even darker black.

Shock keeps the pain at bay. I feel almost nothing at all as I touch my abdomen, even as my palms come away bloody. A deep-red color, drawn up from far, far below the surface. The blade must have punctured some internal organ.

I look back up at Inesa. Her eyes are bright with wild, frantic tears. She presses down on my wound, to stanch the blood, but it just soaks into her skin, too. All the way up the sleeves of her dress. The rainwater makes it run farther, down into the earth.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice thick with agony. “Just keep your eyes open. Just keep breathing.”

It’s useless. This isn’t a wound that time or pressure or bandages will mend. And she knows it.

I reach up—slowly, tremulously—and rest one arm on her shoulder. I hold her face in my blood-slicked hand.

“I love you,” I say.

Inesa gives one short, stuttering sob. And then she leans forward, pressing her forehead to mine.

“I love you,” she whispers. Her tears fall through the spaces between my fingers.

I try to focus only on that deep-green, hazel-flecked, earthy color of her eyes. Her skin feels warm, almost feverish, but I know it’s just because mine is growing colder. I feel the pulsing of her heartbeat, but it no longer keeps time with my own. And I’mvaguely aware of the helicopter lowering itself into the clearing, branches snapping off under the weight of its belly. Lashing more rainwater through the air.

Inesa turns suddenly, arms slipping around my waist to hold me upright. The helicopter hovers only a few feet above the ground now.

The Masks heave Luka to his feet and push him out the door. He lands on his hands and knees in the mud, breathing hard. His bruises are a vivid purple in the light and the wound on his forehead is still dripping blood. I feel Inesa tense with the urge to run to him, but if she lets go of me, I’ll fall.

Then the Masks step from the helicopter. One of them goes toward Lethe, to collect her body, and with unexpected urgency, Luka stirs. He stares at her, through the locks of damp hair falling over his forehead, and his gaze doesn’t leave her until her body—even smaller in death, almost pitifully so—is bundled into the Mask’s arms and lifted into the helicopter. His eyes are unreadable.

The second Mask starts toward me. Inesa’s grip tightens, and she pulls me against her chest. My vision is darkening at the corners again. The world looks gray, washed clean of its color.

Azrael isn’t far behind the Mask. He tucks the gun back into his belt, hiding it beneath his leather coat, and then reaches out for me with black-gloved hands.

Inesa doesn’t let go. She opens her mouth and speaks, but I can’t hear her words. I only see the defiant gleam in her gaze, and the current of grief running under it, making her eyes damp and shimmery.

The Mask is unperturbed. They don’t even slow their pace. Inesa is still talking, protesting, in stammering, shuddery tones. I lift my hand again and, achingly, turn her face toward me.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. Over the sluggish pounding of my heart, I can barely hear my own voice. “It’s over.”

The rainwater falls in harrowing, heavy gouts.

The Mask lifts me into their arms with perfunctory gentleness. It’s the fulfillment of duty, nothing more. I gasp, but my pain is incidental to them. Inesa keeps hold of my hand for as long as she can, until the Mask turns, and her fingers slip through mine.

They carry me into the waiting helicopter, hovering mere inches above the ground.

Even then, she runs after me, skidding in the mud and melting frost. It’s only Luka, rising to his feet at last, who stops her. He grabs her around the shoulders and pins her to his chest. She cries and thrashes against him, but he doesn’t let go.

Inside the helicopter, Azrael removes one of his gloves. He lays a bare hand across my forehead, and his skin is as cold as mine. To the Mask, he says, “Get to work on her at once.”

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