Page 134 of The Blood Traitor

That was when Kiva spoke, managing to rasp only two words. “Goodbye, Zuleeka.”

And before her sister could realize what she was doing, Kiva used the last of her strength to rip the dagger from her own stomach, the sudden pain of it worse than before, worse than anything she’d everexperienced, but she made herself slash upward, even as Zuleeka’s eyes widened and she lurched away.

She was too slow, the blade swiping across her cheek.

It was a shallow wound, barely a scratch.

But it was enough.

An almighty scream roared from Zuleeka as she slapped her hand to her face, the shadows on the bridge instantly receding into her, like spilled ink being sucked back into its pot. Within the space of seconds, her power vanished without a trace, everyone it had held captive free again — and forever.

The next instant, Zuleeka was being tackled to the side by Naari, but she didn’t fight this time, her body limp and unresisting.

It was over.

It wasdone.

And then, suddenly, Jaren was there.

“Kiva, sweetheart, look at me,” he begged, cupping her face, his hands shaking. “Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.”

He shouted then. Not at her — he shouted for help.

More hands were on her, Cresta’s hands, pressing hard against her abdomen. She was yelling something, yelling at Kiva, but Kiva couldn’t understand, her thoughts thick and sluggish. She knew she should feel pain, should have been in agony. But there was nothing.

Just blood.

Lots and lots of blood.

It was all Kiva could see.

Until her eyes closed.

And then —

Darkness.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Pain.

Blood.

Yelling.

Silence.

For seconds, minutes, hours, days, Kiva knew nothing, floating in a sea of oblivion, her eyelids fluttering open and closed, each time revealing someone different.

Jaren, Tipp, Cresta, Torell, Naari, Ashlyn.

They spoke with her, begged and pleaded, but she couldn’t comprehend their words, couldn’t return them. She wanted to feel relief that they were there, that they’d survived the battle. But she also wanted them to be quiet so she could fall back into her blissful nothingness, where there was no pain, no fighting, no fear.

Just peace.

Other faces hovered over her, unfamiliar people dressed in white robes and smelling too clean, coming and going while murmuring in low, worried voices. Only one she recognized, a dark-skinned elderly woman with a kind face behind wire-framed spectacles. Something about her was soothing, reassuring. But Kiva’s dreamlike state meant she couldn’t remember why.

A hand was holding hers.

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