Page 23 of Little Mate

“My body is weak. I don’t have the blood—”

“I’d never ask that of you.” The expression on her face is perplexed and my heart constricts; I can’t imagine everything these people have been through. “All I need is for you to speak with them and help us get them outside. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Miss Gabriella.”

“Thank you, and it’s just Gabby. Okay?” At my request, she nods and then turns to speak to those scared and hungry behind her. And while she does that, I look over at Isa, whose expression mirrors my own. Total and undeniable sorrow.

“This is a nightmare.” Her cold hand grips mine, a sign she’s exhausted. “How could we not know? And are you sure he’s dead? Cause I want to—”

“They are all that remains of this clan.” Pulling my hand from hers after a minute, I walk over to the sconce and place it on the wall. It burns me, but no mark appears on my flesh and yet the pain is nearly unbearable. It’s his doing that I feel this, the turbulent famine of an unfed blood pact, but I hold strong. “Sanguis ad vos reverteur.” The ground shakes, and the screams of those women cause tears to spill from my eyes. I’m returning what belongs to them, their essence and sacrifice will help those victims sustain themselves until we get them home and under medical care. “Sanguis ad vos reverteur.” The light flickers out and my knees shake a bit, but my sister is there with support. Once again, she links our hands, feeding me her energy while her own levels are low. The last few months have left us in a state of exhaustion, and every death and lie surfacing is a hit to our body like the lash of a whip. “Sanguis ad vos reverteur.”

All noises cease then before a low groan meets our ears, and my shaky body takes a step back. The room feels lighter, less repressed, and right when I turn to look at those in the corner, I sense another presence. The place where the old lantern had been is now an open doorway, and I can just make out the shape of someone on the floor.

They are bound; the chain rattles when they move slowly, as if afraid to do so.

“We won’t hurt you,” Isa says while moving closer, but that scares the person. They whimper and it’s a female inside, the sound low and feminine. “No one here will.”

“Please let us help you,” I add, my tone soft.

“They’re here to help, Meera. Don’t fight them.” Canalia’s plea gives me a burst of energy and I rush into the dark room, kneeling in front of a woman no one has seen in years. We thought she’d died. My parents attended her funeral, but we did not, having been far away visiting our English grandparents.

Her eyes meet mine, and I know it to be true. When we were young, she babysat for us.

And all these years…

Bruises and bones—they’ve reduced her to nothing more than a skeletal version of herself.

“Gabby?” she croaks, voice rough from disuse. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Meera. It’s me, and we’re getting you all out of here.”

Her body shakes, the metal clinking from the movement. “But Dad—”

“He’s dead,” I hiss out through clenching teeth, my hands extended back, and Isa knew what I needed, placing a blanket in my hand. I cover her. Give her the modesty she’s been denied for so long. “And had he not been, I’d be running a sharp blade across his neck.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t. I’m sorry it took us so long to find all of you.” Augusto enters the space then, and she stiffens, so scared. He stills, giving her time to calm down while looking at me for permission to carry on. Her anxiety is palpable, near choking, and I tip her face in my direction. “He’s just here to get you out of those chains. Please let him help you.”

“Okay.”

“Focus on me, Meera. I won’t fail you again.”

7

GABRIELLA

The second we enter our lands after twenty-four hours of rough travel back home, the women and children too fragile to walk for long periods, Isa and I head straight for the throne room. The guards have their instructions, and word has been sent back to those on our lands of the women and children coming back with us. And while these—our people—need words of comfort and support, our grief is too strong to contain.

It’s been months since we were driven from our home in the dead of night.

It’s been months since they killed the two people, we needed most in this world.

Death and ash still suffocate the home where we grew up, and although it’s been cleaned and emptied of damaged items, nothing can erase what I feel. What my sister still sees.

Their beautiful, ornate high-back thrones are gone.

The windows, the stained-glass panes with the depiction of my mother’s favorite olive tree, are blown out and the wooden frame completely charred.

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