With a nudge of my shoulder, I sent Amy’s head swinging and talked in a gravelly old person’s voice like a ventriloquist. “Quite all right, youngster. In fact, I could compare my strength to that of an oak leaf, the origin of which can be found ten thousand years ago, when a swamp nymph flew over a field and accidentally dropped an acorn—”
“All right.” The groom waved a hand. “I’ll fetch horses.”
CHAPTER 31INWHICHAKISSDOESNOTSAVETHEWORLD
BRYCE
My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I couldn’t breathe. Maybe I was dying too.
Dying. Oh god, oh god, oh god.
One minute, I was being kissed like it was my last day on Earth. Now, it actually felt like it might be my last day on Earth.
I’d never been kissed like that in my entire life, with pure, rawwant. And now this, the instant reminder that no matter how good something was in the moment, it was sure to come crashing down.
Courtney’s knuckles jabbed against my side. The warm light of the stables stung my eyes. Then I was pushed onto a horse. The cold darkness of the city streets hugged me, suffocated me. Streetlamps flashed by.
My thoughts were sharp, staccato, firing off to the rhythm of my horse’s hoofbeats.
This was why it was better to never chase happiness. It felt so much worse when everything fell apart. Courtney wouldn’t leave me, and I couldn’t leave her, and she’d made me progressively more and more happy until—until this.
Clomp, clomp, clomp, went the horse’s hooves. Amy was still breathing, though shallowly, and I focused on that to avoid spiraling more.
With a jolt, I realized we’d stopped, and Courtney was standing at my knee, looking up with wide eyes. “Help Amy off the horse. Something’s wrong.”
Together, we helped Amy down. He didn’t look good: eyes bulging, skin going blue around the mouth. We hadn’t made it far at all. There was no way we’d get to the doctor in time.
Garbled choking noises issued from Amy’s throat. He gestured wildly, trying to tell us something.
“I think he’s trying to talk,” I said.
Supporting Amy, we dragged him to an abandoned alley and propped him against a building.
“Is there something we can do to save you?” Courtney asked, going to her knees in front of him. Her hair was falling free from her updo, and her dress was dirty and wrinkled. Dark smudges rested under her eyes. She looked like the human embodiment of stress.
Amy opened his mouth, but only a croak came out. Croaking in every sense of the word. He pointed at me, then opened and closed his fingers rapidly like he was miming small explosions before pointing at himself.
I started to laugh, a high-pitched, hysterical laugh that was almost a sob. I couldn’t help it. The whole situation was too ludicrous. Here we were playing a high-stakes game of charades with our mentor, who we’d had a hand in poisoning.
“How many words?” I heard Courtney ask. “Five. Okay. Ten. Fifteen? Amy, no, I’m not sure you understand the concept of this game. Brevity is key.”
I sank to the wall opposite Amy and clutched my hands, still half laughing, half crying. Emotionally and physically, I was spent. Hopeless.
“Person, place, thing, book?” Courtney asked.
I peeked through my fingers.
“Oh my god, Amy,” Courtney said. “Just write it in the dirt.”
I blinked. “That’s not how charades works, Courtney.”
Courtney gave me a look of disbelief. Right. We weren’t actually playing charades.
Amy bent to the side, gnarled, shaking finger tracing wobbly letters in the dirt.
He wrote:
Magic has healing properties. Bryce has awakened his, and, with focus, he could coax the poison from my body.
