Page 53 of When Sorrows Come

Aethlin was breathing, little hitches of his chest that sounded increasingly labored. The knife had been slotted between his ribs, probably piercing a kidney, and he could be bleeding out internally.

The knife. The Doppelganger’s knife was less than a foot from the High King’s body, as yet untouched by the spreading pool of ichor that was all that remained of the actual Doppelganger. They melt when killed, creating a horrible, caustic slime thatnevercomes out of carpet.

Go on. Ask me how I know.

Suddenly realizing what I had to do, I lunged for the Doppelganger’s knife, only for the remaining guard to slam his sword into the carpet bare inches from my fingers.

“No, king-breaker,” he snarled. “You will not harm him farther.”

“She’s on his side!” cried Cassandra.

I did my best not to get distracted, focusing on the guard. “I’m not trying toharmhim, he’s Daoine Sidhe, that makes him a blood-worker, I’m Dóchas Sidhe, I heal like it’s a contest, if I can make myself bleed, I can help him.” I was talking fast, all too aware that the High King’s time was limited. He was going to lose consciousness soon, if he hadn’t already, and then he wouldn’t be able to use the magic he got from my blood, no matter how useful it could have been. We were on a countdown, and I didn’t know how much time was left before we ran out of options.

The guard looked to Fiac hopelessly, clearly awaiting the Adhene’s answer before he made his final decision. Fiac looked briefly pained, looking between the two of us, then sighed and settled on a mild:

“She speaks truth. Let the girl try.”

The guard pulled back his sword, a mistrustful expression on his face, and I grabbed the knife, covered as it was with the High King’s blood.

In a mortal setting, at a mortal crime scene, interfering with the weapon would have been the worst thing we could do. But here—the Doppelganger wouldn’t have left any useful fingerprints behind. If it left any, they belonged to the missing guard, not to the dead monster. And we already knew the High King had been stabbed, so contaminating his blood wasn’t a concern.

“Tybalt?” I called, voice higher and less steady than I liked.

“Yes?”

“Is it dead?”

“Very.” He didn’t sound satisfied or smug about that. He just sounded tired.

“Good,” I said, and slashed the knife down the length of my arm, cutting deep before dropping the blade to the floor, in easy reach in case I needed to cut myself again. Hopefully not. I needed this wound to last for at least a few seconds. The blood was hot andimmediate, cascading free, and I moved my arm, pressing it to the High King’s mouth.

“Come on, come on,” I said. “Drink and get better.”

Did his lips move? Did he swallow? I couldn’t tell. I kept my arm in place until it had healed completely, then sat back on my heels, watching the High King’s motionless form sink just that little bit deeper into the carpet. I couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead, and I didn’t want to be the one to find out one way or another.

“Is he alive?” demanded the guard. I gave him a hopeless look, sighed, and began to bend forward, to press my ear to the High King’s chest.

I was still in motion when Aethlin gasped, opened his eyes, and sat up, all at the same time. Unfortunately, the speed of the gesture meant his forehead cracked against mine, sending me reeling. He stayed where he was, looking wildly around.

“Sire?” asked the remaining guard.

Aethlin turned slowly to look at him. “Artyom?” he said, sounding puzzled, like he hadn’t been expecting to see his own guard.

“Yes, sire,” said the guard, with naked relief in his voice.

Tybalt, meanwhile, was moving to help me up, hooking his hands under my arms and tugging me back to my feet. I let him, doing my best to get my feet under myself and help the process along.

Lips close to my ear, he murmured, “Are you well?”

“Yeah,” I said. “He didn’t even hit me hard enough to crack the bone. I’ll be fine as soon as I’ve had a chance to catch my breath.” My stomach grumbled. “And eat a sandwich or something.”

“Yes, or something,” he agreed.

“Maybetwosandwiches,” suggested Cassandra.

There was a marshy patch on the carpet behind Tybalt, green sludge spreading out across the kitchen floor. He looked shaken, like he was on the verge of tears, and there was nothing romantic about the way he ran his hands along me. He was checking for injuries that had somehow failed to heal, not trying to get inappropriately frisky in front of the High King.

“Hey,” I said. “I’mfine. I’m more worried about you and the High King.”

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