Page 71 of Red Ruin
My soul rushes when she calls.
Her coolness blows through the fog.
I sigh.
My Guide.
The fresh red on her lips mixes with the more complex aroma of dried blood clinging to her older wounds.
What a waste.
The blood-streaked beauty stops in front of my toes. Her pale, blue soul-silks stroke me familiarly—as if she’s petting her own lapdog.
“There you are.” She finds my face and takes hold of my jaw. “Did you remember my name?”
“Guide.”
She’smyGuide.
I’m certain.
Otherwise?
She’d already be drained.
A frustrated rasp feathers her breath against my throat. “Do you have any other words? Or just the one?”
“Mine.” I tilt my head and inhale her fingers.
She squints. “Can you say bowl?”
“Bowl.”
“Good, Remy. Now say cut.”
“Cut.” I don’t know why I’m mindlessly repeating, but it seems the thing to do as my shadows preen, begging for her care.
The Guide strokes my cheekbones. “Can you say both words together? Bowl cut.”
“Bowl…cut?”
“Yes. Exactly.” She pets my hair, digging her fingers into my scalp.
I inhale her bouquet.
Delicious.
She tries to peer into eyes that don’t exist in my shadow form.
“I don’t understand,” she mutters, “How do you regress so far so fast?”
“Guide.” I swallow against the scrape in my throat.
“Sentinel.” She shakes her head. “Let’s get that memory back. I want to see your face when you realize who made this mess we’re in.”
She lifts to meet my lips.
The bloody kiss jolts my sluggish body.
