Page 69 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“That’s—”
“Well, then this really will be an absolute lark,” Puck laughs. Sniggers ripple through the room.
The walls seem to close in, and I feel like I’m underwater. But as Puck’s challenge hangs in the air, a new resolve crystallizes. I may have been forged in cruelty, but I won’t let it define me. Not anymore.
I accept the dagger he gives me but offer it to Geraldine. I’d rather be the wounded one, not her. Unfortunately, the tremble in my hand cannot be stilled. My voice sounds less sure than it should when I say, “You take the lead.”
Her eyes widen. “You trust me to wound you like that?”
“Of course.”
“Is the Shadow afraid to get the job done?” Puck sneers. “If you don’t make it realistic, I’ll do it for you.”
Geraldine glares at Puck, then pushes the blade to me and says, “You’re not afraid, are you?”
Yes. “No.”
“It’s okay,” she whispers, squeezing my fingers on the hilt. “I trust you.”
Ten seconds: Massive blood loss begins.
Tension heightens. Eyes filled with morbid excitement and trepidation watch me. With shaking hands, I mentally map out Geraldine’s anatomy.
“Let’s not take all day,” Puck drawls.
“Fuck him,” Geraldine mutters. “You’ve got this.”
Twenty seconds: Blood pressure drops precipitously.
Her uncertain tone spins my head. Fear or doubt in my knowledge? My trembling hands might nick a vital spot if I don’t pull myself together.
Thirty seconds: Consciousness fades.
I point the blade at various spots on her body, murmuring to myself the safest places to make a deep wound.
“Upper thigh, away from the femoral artery,” I mutter, eerily calm. “Outer bicep, avoiding brachial. Lower abdomen, shallow to avoid peritoneum . . .”
Geraldine’s eyes widen, shock and confusion flashing. “Willow, how do you?—”
I don’t let her finish. With a swift, precise movement, I make a deep cut on the back of her upper arm. Her sharp cry of pain tightens my throat, but I hold her steady, hold her like I did my victims as they bled out in my arms. The blade parted flesh with sickening ease, and blood wells up quickly, trickling down her arm in rivulets.
Forty-five seconds: Brain activity ceases.
Time seems to slow as I assess the wound. My hands move with practiced efficiency, applying pressure that makes the bleeding appear worse than it is.
“Significant blood loss,” I announce loudly, my voice clinical and detached. “Possible muscle damage. Will require immediate attention and sutures.”
I catch Geraldine’s eye, slightly shaking my head. She understands and plays along with dramatic winces and moans. It’s not hard—all wounds hurt—especially the ones where friends lie.
I take a tourniquet and strap her upper arm like we were taught, but then I hesitate. I’m a killer, not a healer. I can’t stitch wounds. My mind whirls, trying to remember the techniques from this lesson. Heath swoops in with a needle and thread, steadying my hand and guiding my stitches. Geraldine’s eyes hold pain, confusion, and dawning realization of my inner darkness.
Sixty seconds: Heart stops.
“Well done, Shadow,” Puck’s sarcastic voice cuts through. “The blade-wielder truly ismostqualified to treat wounds.”
I hate him with a passion bordering on insanity.
I finish bandaging, the dressing unnecessarily tight for show. The trust in my friend’s eyes has been replaced by something else—not fear, exactly, but a new wariness cutting deeper than any blade.
