Not that she stays there long.
Motions becoming sharp and precise, I thread my arms through my leather bandolier laden with iron blades, stuffing my feet in black boots and lacing them to the knee. I bind a veil around my neck, then move up the stairs, chased by the sound of parchment wings.
I pause by the table while Nee bumps …
Bumps …
Bumps …
She nuzzles into my neck like she thinks she’s safe. She’s not.
Nobody I care about ever is.
I swallow the thickening lump in my throat and snatch a quill, dip it in a pot of ink, then swoop Nee into my hand and unpleat her face, tail, wings, and body, flattening her upon the table where I read her message—one final time.
“No you don’t,” I rasp, scratching the words upon the parchment in my less than perfect handwriting, butchering beautiful Nee into something far less tender.
Less vulnerable.
The backs of my eyes burn as I fold her up again, tarnishing her with a smudge of Essi’s blood as I work her back into shape.
My fingers linger over the final fold. One I haven’t pressed before.
The activation line that will return Nee to her sender.
My gaze lifts to Essi—still and silent on the seater.
Dead.
My fingers pinch of their own accord, crimping the fold into place.
Nee wiggles to life, her flapping motions smooth and mechanical. Void of everything that makes her her.
That ache in my chest intensifies as she glides toward the window in a steady flutter without another neck nudge or giddy swirl, and I know she’s gone. That her soul has slipped free, and that whatever “magic” tethered her to me … it’s not there anymore.
Just like Essi’s not here anymore.
Just like Fallon—
I cut off the thought, clear my throat, and force myself to watch Nee pass through the window and disappear from sight, into the merciless sky—stuffing down the temptation to rip off my ring. To beg Clode to bring her back to me with a push of wind.
No.
I move to the kitchen and pack the trough with rags that trail over the edge, making a path to the rug. Then I pull a bottle of sterilizing spirits from the cupboard of mending supplies, crack the lid, and douse the rags. The rug.
The blanket keeping Essi warm.
I douse the corner of another small cloth, tuck it in my sheath with a stick of flint, then move toward the window, pausing by the seater where I drop to a kneel.
Brushing my hand through Essi’s hair, I take in the sharp slopes of her ethereal face … Too beautiful for this world.
Too pure.
“I love you,” I whisper, mapping her freckles. Storing the vision of her somewhere safe where I can treasure it forever. “I’m going to take away the cold, okay?”
The silence that follows is a cruel taunt that rips at the contents of my chest. Like a Moltenmaw is caught within me, slashing.
Feasting.
With a final kiss on her temple, I force myself to turn. To climb out the window and up the bloodstained wall, sullying my hands with more of her. I pull myself into the wind tunnel, stare stabbed at the drop chute as I push to my feet.
Feed me to the fire where I’ll never be cold again.
My face crumbles, then knots into a savage twist despite the reluctant shudder tilled from my ashen past.
The thought of burning Essi’s body … it makes me want to bunch up and scream. The idea of casting her in flames goes against the grain of everything that shaped me into who I am this dae, but I will not cower from this fire she asked me for.
I will not fail her again.
I pull the cloth and flint from my sheath and force myself forward a single wobbly step. Hand trembling.
Soul squirming.
Teeth gritted, I scour the flint across the stone wall, catching the spark on the cloth. It bursts into flames so fast they nip at my skin, and panic wraps its hands around my throat, squeezing so hard I can barely breathe. But I maintain my trembling hold on the cloth, forcing three strangled words past my chattering teeth.
“I’m sorry, Essi.”
I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe. That I never said I love you before you were dying in my arms.
I’m sorry I wasn’t the family you deserved.
I flick the flaming cloth down the chute, followed by the flint, staggering back from the blow of heat that blasts my face, choking on the pour of smoke.
There’s the sound of glass shattering, and I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing her jars of tinctures popping—one by one.
The heat intensifies, and I picture the rug burning, the smell of fried flesh coming to me too soon.
Too fucking soon.