Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(58)

What she wanted now was to allow herself to still be seen by Blythe, even in her reaper form. She needed to prove to her cousin that she could truly do the things she was about to claim, and so that’s what she focused on as the nausea took over and the poison leached through her.

Death was beside her at once, tense and ranting about how foolish she was for consuming the last of the berries. For a moment Signa swore that Blythe looked at him, or at least near him. Blythe shuddered from the sudden rush of cold and pushed herself against the side of the stall. Signa wouldn’t blame her if she fled. She’d be glad for it. But she knew Blythe well enough to know that she wasn’t going anywhere.

“You have to throw that up right now.” Blythe’s voice trembled, but she made no move forward. “You need to get the poison out of you.”

Signa shut her eyes, uncertain whether it was right for her to feel so relieved. “You can see me?”

Blythe stiffened. “Of course I can see you. Stop talking nonsense!”

Her plan may have worked, but Signa’s body shook from the effort of keeping herself visible, the shadows around her too pale. Too gray. Death was at her side at once, pressing his hands against her bare skin, cursing himself as he helped solidify her place on his side of the veil.

“That shouldn’t be possible.” Death’s voice was breathless. “Not while she’s still alive.”

Something must have happened when we saved her, she told him. She avoided dying three separate times. Perhaps there’s more of a price to that than we thought.

Signa hovered close to the foal, mindful of even the barest hint of her touch. “Tell it you’re here,” Signa whispered to Blythe. “Give it whatever comfort you can. It’s not long for this world.”

“Mr. Crepsley said it could make a recovery.” Blythe’s bottom lip quivered, but still she drew the foal’s head to her lap and stroked its neck. “Try to relax, angel. You’ll be all right.” Her voice was soft as snowfall.

Signa told herself that it was a mercy to end the foal’s life. It had struggled enough, and she knew as she stretched her bare fingers toward it that she could give it the peaceful, easy rest it deserved.

“Whatever you do,” Signa warned, “do not touch me. No matter what you see, no matter what you think, don’t you dare touch me.” Only when Blythe had bobbed her head in a fraction of a nod did Signa slip her fingers through the foal’s dark mane, pressing them against the velvety skin of its neck. There was no need to summon the reaper’s powers; they leached through her entire being, shadows dripping from her fingertips as the bitter cold took control.

And in that moment, as the foal’s heartbeat stilled beneath her touch and Blythe covered her mouth with tears in her eyes, Signa hated herself for having these powers. With just a single touch, the foal shuddered once before releasing the quietest exhale.

It was dead within the second. Signa had killed it within a second.

No one moved an inch until Blythe finally stared up at her. She clutched the foal close, arms wrapping around its thick neck. “W-we should call for William. He might be able to revive—”

Signa curled her fingers in the straw. “There’s no reviving the dead, Blythe. He’s gone.”

Signa didn’t anticipate the severity with which her cousin’s eyes would pin her. They were red rimmed and repulsed.

Signa had seen those same eyes too many times before. On different faces, perhaps, but always with that same stare. She’d seen it when the Killingers had fled after her uncle’s death. Had seen it when she’d left her aunt Magda’s house half a year ago, and it seemed everyone in the entire town had shown up to cross themselves as they watched her go.

It was the look of contempt.

Hate.

Fear.

And it hurt all the worse that, this time, it came from Blythe.

“You killed it.” It wasn’t a question. It was a whispered chant she repeated over and over again as she cradled the dead foal closer. “Why, Signa? Why would you do that?” The moment that question passed Blythe’s lips, something within Signa shattered.

Perhaps she was never meant for this life. Never meant to have friends or living, breathing people who cared for her. Because at one point or another, they would always look at her as Blythe did now.

Would it be different, she wondered, if she leaned into her other powers? If she pushed aside the siren song of the reaper and instead leaned into Life’s burning magic? Could that make her happy, or would she be no different than the girl she had been last autumn, focused solely on pleasing everyone else?

“Bring him back.” Blythe’s words were like poison, lethal and so searing that Signa’s throat tightened. “Bring him back right now.”

“I can’t do that—”

“Now, Signa! I want him back now!”

Guilt swelled within her, and there was the heat again, stirring deep in her belly as she tried to give Blythe what she wanted. Tried to give her cousin a version of herself that was worthy of the love Blythe had to offer. It burned through her, so hot that Signa worried her skin would melt. She refused to shy away from it, though, curling her fingers into the foal’s mane even when the tears came and a scream tore through her throat.

It took seconds that felt like years of agony; like Signa herself was in the depths of hell, eaten alive by the flames. Distantly she heard Death calling to her, though she couldn’t make out the words. It hurt too much to listen. To focus. To do anything at all… until suddenly it didn’t.