Page 16 of The Sacrifice

“Since we carried him through the Veil,” offers Mayce.

I’ve never healed a god. Memories of my failure at healing fevers like this haunt my mind. Infection is much more difficult because it plagues the blood. Nor can I surge my vym into the body as I would with an open wound or bind it like a splint around a broken bone. Infection requires a slow immersion. It requires me to go deep to break down the toxins and cleanse the infected blood.

“Well, little dove? If you are such a master blood-binder, then what are you waiting for?” taunts Merikh, crossing his arms over his chest at his side.

Threading my brows low, I respond, “I need a knife. Or a blade of some sort.”

“Considering what you did to our King, giving you a blade is not in our best interest,” Mayce resolves while moving to the opposite side of the bed.

“Show me where to cut, little dove, and I’ll gladly provide the blade,” adds Merikh while flashing his fangs.

“A claw will do fine,” Mayce prompts and snaps his fingers to Kyan, who advances to me, nodding at the second in command. Merikh clenches his jaw but acquiesces, much to my relief. I don’t know what to make of the vampire, other than knowing he hates me. And his hatred goes beyond my wounding the dragon.

After rolling the sleeves of his jacket to my elbows, the fallen angel pauses, assessing all the white striations and marks of my blood-binding scars. The deeper ones I’ve concealed with ink. “It’s fine,” I assuage his concerns. “Just cut a superficial even line from the center of my palm to my elbow.”

“So long?”

I glance at the thrashing, mumbling dragon, and nod, knowing this will require more of my vym, my essence, my spirit gift. “Yes.”

It’s the first time the pain isn’t hushed. I hiss from the sharp pain, sharper than ever, and it takes all my effort not to flinch. Unfathomable how blood-binders do this day in and day out, but I remember how many use herbs to numb the pain. My body was simply immunized until I met the Kings of the Waste.

Once the blood oozes from the wound, I advance to the dragon king, choosing to curl my vym to the open wounds of his wrist instead of the gaping one at the base of his throat. “I’m going to practice on a smaller wound first.” I direct my words to Mayce, flicking my eyes to him. His are hard and unblinking—a warning of what will happen if I fail, but a warning nonetheless because he doesn’t wish me to fail. His King’s welfare may be first and foremost, but it’s clear the Fae doesn’t wish me to be on the receiving end of Merikh’s torture. Of course, sweet Kyan doesn’t wish me to be.

When the vym charges from my veins, I pinch my eyes in concentration to reel it in. Like holding the reins on a wild horse. Or more like a herd of wild horses with how much I need to tug on it. If I’m not careful, too much vym will engulf the dragon’s blood. It could rupture vessels and strip veins.

Slowing my vym, I work to braid the tresses of energy, until it’s easier to grip. My skin aches and throbs from the open wound, and I blink past the pain. The vym doesn’t tingle when it escapes my body. It stings and burns like hot iron pokers. Beads of sweat drip down the sides of my face. On the opposite side of the bed, Mayce remains as still as a statue, arms as stiff as rods as he surmises me. Hot as acid, Merikh’s breath needles into the back of my neck, raising the hairs to prickle.

Pressing my lips to a hard seam, I focus on my vym, on weaving the tasseled ends of the gray braid to tickle the wounds at the dragon’s wrist. Healing superficial wounds and closing the skin is child’s play for me. But I sink deeper, wincing from the extreme contrast of molten lava—the dragon’s fiery blood—and the icy black infection plaguing his body and stirring the fever. It’s going to take more vym. It may take everything in me.

Qora crouches before me. “This is insanity, Quinn. You’re going to kill yourself!”

“Maybe,” I murmur under my breath, eyeing my Shadow, careless if I look like a crazy clod to the Kings. “But I’d rather die healing the dragon than at the fangs of a vampire following my failure.”

“Who is she speaking with?” asks Kyan from the corner of the room as he scans the area.

Merikh’s growl echoes behind me while Mayce lowers his brows, eyes fixated at me. The rest of him is inhumanly still. The kind of still only accomplished by a Fae.

“It was my shadow power that poisoned him. You’ve never countered my vym.”

I pause and chew on my inner cheek, remembering a million moments with my Shadow since I was little. For a brief time, I opposed her. She always caught me when I tried to escape. Then, I tried avoiding her, but it only resulted in more torment. Once I finally accepted her, things grew better. Of course, she still tried to kill me once a year, but on all other days, it was just her and me. I always had someone to talk to, someone who could listen, someone who stayed at my side when Pater locked me in the dark root cellar. She became more than my Shadow. She became my friend.

This time, when I sink my vym into the blood, I don’t attack the shadow infection. I don’t push, prod, needle, or try to cleanse the power. Instead, I tickle the feathery ends of my vym across Qora’s. And just as her cold vym rises like a wuthering gust to bite mine, I pounce and blanket hers. Without sinking, without plunging, I spread my vym like a mantle, swelling it to drape longer and longer. My vym is gray but warm and soft like a shroud of smoke or wilted flowers. Steam hisses from where I’ve hugged Qora’s shadow vym with my gray one, but it’s not long before the power settles, soothed by my embrace.

The dragon god growls, but his body stops thrashing. His chest still heaves, but I take that as a good sign. His body heat envelopes the front side of my body, and I try to ignore how I’m kneeling on the bed, wearing nothing but Kyan’s jacket that has scooted to my upper thighs.

I squeeze my eyes, shake my dizzy head out to find Qora’s dark hand settling upon my bloody arm, her fingers curving into the wound. After blinking back tears from her actions, I lean closer to the dragon and pour more of my smoky gray vym into the wounds. Blood thuds wild and hard in my ears, but I grow my vym, projecting it like a network of branches to twist around Qora’s shadow plague. Fine threads of ink thicken like a soft and slow twilight creeping upon a thunderous sky. Blood drips onto my thigh from the open wound in my arm.

I coax my vym from inside the dragon’s arms and into his throat where I’d stabbed. I see what my vym sees. Feel what it feels.

Flesh has scorched and melted from where his fire lodged after its multiple escape attempts. Here, Qora’s shadow-vym is dimmer. I curl my vym, flowing it upon the ruined flesh, heal the burns and seal the flesh. His scales and skin will need to grow back on their own. As it is, my stomach heaves. Nausea clots the insides while my strained intestines squirm. My tattoos become a maelstrom of spiraling ink on my arms and legs. Every scar cries out in agony. Darkness presses in at the edges.

“More!” I raise my other arm, begging no one in particular.

“This is mad,” Kyan protests on my left. “She’ll pass out.”

Despite my blurry vision, I can make out Mayce’s silver and gold figure next to me. Startle at the sharp Fae claw that drags down my arm to spill more blood. Again, Qora latches on, coupling her vym to mine as we embark into the power center. There’s no time for anything else. If we purge the heart of the infection, the rest of the blood network will listen and follow.

I drift in and out of awareness. More blood trickles onto my thighs. My breath hitches, then comes in waves. A series of snarls engulf the tower, and I recognize them as Merikh’s. The sound of bodies pounding against stone, claws raking wood, and objects thrown across the room invade my ears, but it’s not long before the dragon’s heartbeat hammers inside them. I can’t think about whatever battle is going down in the tower. Pain gnaws on me. My body feels heavier than an anvil.

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