Crescent

17

Being a cold-hearted killer himself—or rather nothing more than the puppet master behind the death of Project 0-29—Zeno didn't even bat an eye as Orion breathed his last. The stench of decay permeated the air; Vera recoiled, noise wrinkled as she dropped her sword to muffle the smell. Her head was swimming, too heavy to hold upright yet light enough to float freely if she let go. One ear was ringing; the other burned in agony, plastering her hair to the wound with fresh blood.

"Was that all?" she murmured. Her voice came through muffled as if a thick wall of cotton stood between her and it, and one side heard it distinctly louder than the other. The ground swayed. Swallowing hard, she sank to a seat in the grass beside her discarded sword as her vision blackened. She shivered, grounded until her head settled. It was only a matter of time before the fae-killer came upon them. As she was, she would be as good as dead when that happened.

Zeno grabbed her by the chin, tilting her face toward his. His lips were pinched in a harsh frown, his brow furrowed with concentration that left deep wrinkles in his perfect milky skin. It was difficult to tell through her blurry vision, but she thought the distinct twist of pity had found its way to his expression yet again, always mocking her.

Her face flushed with the heat of anger—or maybe it was just the burning in her wound. Weakly, Vera swatted his hand away. "Don't touch me. If you want to be useful, bring me my bag. Then be on your guard."

He set his jaw, one hand raised to argue but he seemed to think better of it. Instead, the stars in his fingers lit up, silver against midnight blue ink, and he flicked an invisible force her way. She winced, half expecting to be thrown back, but little more than the skitter of magic in the air washed over her. His power wrenched her bag from its cover and dropped it unceremoniously in her lap. She barely had time to look down at it before it popped open and a white cloth whisked out. The same unseen hand pressed it hard against the bloody side of her head, eliciting a sharp sting from the wound.

A small button scraped the edge of the jagged cut, and she hissed. "This is my extra shirt," she snapped. Pain slurred her words as exhaustion caught up to her.

He ignored her and grabbed her wrist. Eyes locked on hers, he wrenched her hand up and rested it against the cloth. No words were exchanged, but the message was clear: hold it.

Her head pounded, and it threatened to split her skull to escape the fiery agony that seized her. As Zeno moved away, the motion blurred and darkened. With a groan, she dropped her head, pressing it to her knees as she held the cloth to her ear—or where her ear should have been. Her stomach wrenched at the thought; she didn't dare to look up again in case she happened to catch sight of her discarded ear lying uselessly in the grass. Bile coated the back of her throat, her toes curling in her boots as she fought to keep it down.

If the fae-killer came, could they really defeat it in such a state? Zeno didn't need her, but she couldn't be a sitting duck, waiting to be plucked off by the unseelie.

She wasn't even sure she would hear it coming.

Dread fell heavily on her shoulders. The wound throbbed. Blood soaked the fabric, already sticking to her hand through the bunched up shirt. Everything was spinning. The forest loomed over her, crawling toward her, staring down at her. Breathe, Vera. Just breathe.

Cold metal pricked her good ear—the post of the earring she had lost. She jerked up just as Zeno clamped the earring firmly in place, but her tongue was too heavy to try to argue. He sat back just as she raised her head, hands already in motion. They never rested, not even when they were covered in a mix of her crimson blood and his silvery ichor. It took a moment for the crackle of magic to resurface; it hummed against her ear as it sparked to life.