Page 53 of Never Say Die
“You know the cost is blood,” Cit said lowly, tugging on his hair again. “Shay won’t run, will he? Not with you here. That’s the exchange, sweetheart. Prophecies die with their prophets. Sacrifice is just a synonym for love, anyway.”
Do it.
Aiden acted on impulse. He ripped away, pitching his body forward, and gripped her wrist with both hands. The knife clipped his neck. He gasped, aware of blood on his shirt.Too much, he thought.There’s too much. A blunt noise startled him, like a fist against a punching bag, as he buried the blade beneathher collarbone. Cit gasped, gurgling pitifully. She clawed at his hands. Her amber eyes widened, blinking wildly at the sky.
“You have no idea who you’re fucking with,” Aiden said, voice hitched and trembling. He stepped away, pulling the knife loose from her body, and watched her crumble.
Carnage echoed into the night. He knew that sound—hurried footsteps, crunching bone, stillness. He listened for Shay. Recognized his ruthless voice. Pawed helplessly at the wound on his throat, coughing blood on every exhale. His palm came away slippery and warm.Deep. The word rushed, retreated.Deep. Dying. You’re dying, Aiden. I’m dying.He stumbled into the side of the truck and lifted his heavy head. Find Shay,he thought. A glimpse of him, something, anything.
One of the witches lie strewn across a dry shrub, ribcage bent open, leg snapped. Laura was draped over the altar, still breathing, pushing at the stone, trying to get to her feet. Another body—throat shredded; thigh hollowed—had fallen into puddled wax beside the candles.
Aiden blinked, listening to a helpless, guttural scream rise and fade. He needed to say something.Shay, I’m bleeding.But his tongue went numb, flopping uselessly behind his teeth. He blinked. Sucked in another short, painful breath, and managed to say, “Shay.”
Shay, likewhere are you. Shay, likeplease.
In the darkness, something whipped upright. Black eyes glinted, flashing toward him.
“Shay,” he said, louder, like a cry for help, and fell.
Aiden woke with a needle in his neck. He sucked air through clenched teeth and squirmed, bracing on the seat inside the cult-witches Chevy. Blood darkened Shay’s lips like day-old lipstick and a cigarette wafted smoke in the ashtray attached to the dashboard.
“I’ve never done this before, so try not to move,” Shay said. Another hot pinch pierced Aiden’s throat. “I know it sucks, but we can’t go to a hospital and I’m pretty sure you’ll get sepsis or some. . . I don’t know, some bullshit blood infection if we don’t stitch you.”
“Can I have that?” Aiden choked out, scissoring his fingers at the cigarette.
Shay took a drag and handed it to him.
He noticed Shay’s iPhone propped against the gear shifter, open to a video cutely labeled—DIY Stitches!—and coughed over a laugh. “Could’ve given me some of your miraculous vampire blood,” Aiden teased, biting back another flinch.
“Tried that. Didn’t work.”
Aiden sucked smoke into his lungs. He glanced sideways and remembered, suddenly, viscerally, how close they’d been to death. His heart skittered, pressing hard on sore ribs. “Are you okay?” he asked. He tried to pull away, to get a better look at him, but Shay planted his hand on Aiden’s chest, keeping him still. “Shay, are you?—”
“I’m fine. Stop moving. I’m almost done.”
“How long have I been out?”
“An hour.”
“Did she… That bitch. Laura, whatever. She had the gun. Did she?—”
“No, you distracted her by legitimately flaying yourself open. Good job.”
Aiden frowned, huffing.
Shay cut the thread with his teeth and placed an adhesivebandage over the jagged stitches. His coppery breath hit Aiden’s jaw. “I’m kidding,” he said, gently. “How you feelin’?”
“Well, I fainted,” he paused, nodding, “like a bitch,” nodded again, “and we almost got murdered by a witch cultandwe’re probably going to prison forever, so,” he exhaled smoke, “I’m feelin’ like a gallon of tequila, two Vicodin, and a blunt.”
Shay took the stubby cigarette and fit it to his lips, inhaling until the filter burned. “How about a fifth of Jack and a half-empty pack of American Spirits? Because that’s all I found in here.”
“Great,” Aiden whispered. He heaved a sigh. “That’ll do.”
Shay slid in front of the steering wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered, but eventually turned over. They drove out of the empty Walgreens parking lot, past dark shopfronts and vacant gas stations, and made their way toward the motel. Streetlights flickered and headlights cut across quiet roads, illuminating a squat possum wiggling under a trash can lid and a dog—coyote, maybe—loping between fenced yards. Aiden breathed through liminality. That odd, shifting space he’d abruptly entered. The longer he stayed there, thinking back through the night, the more claustrophobic he became in his own skin. He wanted to scrub away the dirt on his ankles and the blood under his shirt. Burn his clothes on a pyre and make an offering to whoever kept steering their fate. Strip the memory from his scalp—Cit holding him like a useless fucking kitten.
Aiden touched the bandage on his neck. “Was it bad?”
“It’ll leave a scar,” Shay said. He pointed to the bag by Aiden’s feet. “I got some bleach, medical stuff, orange juice, B-12, and iron supplements. They’ll help, I think. Since you’ve. . .” He paused to sigh. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
