Crescent

27

Drink the ichor I gave you. I'll guide you through the spell.

Disgust roiled in the pit of Vera's stomach as she uncorked the vial and took a delicate step back. The vial was cold to the touch, crackling in her grip. His silvery blood glowed like it knew she was finally going to test its power. Her skin prickled with curiosity and fear. "Are you sure this will be powerful enough to break whatever spell Wyn left here?"

Zeno had shifted again, putting his back to her as he dragged his fingers through the puddle of silver around him. He traced a series of runes along the floor, but he stopped to narrow his eyes at her. When he lifted his hands to speak, they were covered in bluish silver ichor. Yes. Isn't power what you want? Don't tell me a little discomfort is all it takes to dissuade you.

Vera's grip tightened on the small glass vial. "How do I know I can trust you?"

I'm not your friend. I don't want your trust, and you shouldn't give it away freely. He put his hand against the bars in front of her, his palm flat and fingers spread. When he flexed them, she could see a faint line in the midnight skin where he had cut himself before. This time, he spoke without lifting a finger, projecting his silent words directly to her through the earring. But I need you if I want to get out of this cage, so I have no intention of hurting you.

Vera stiffened, casting a sideways glance as the writing he had started. "You were always planning this. That's why you let yourself bleed."

The corner of Zeno's mouth lifted. He pulled away from the bars and returned to the gory scene at the other corner of the cell. This time, he spoke with his hands in emphatic, haughty moves. Wyn's spell prevents me from casting, but my blood is magic. If I guide it, someone else can cast, and I'll be free.

"I don't understand. Aren't you more powerful than Wyn? Why go through so many steps?"

Drink it, Ve.

A chill slithered down her spine. It was the same routine they danced in the forest, when he thrust the vial of blood in her hands and attempted to buy his way out of their original deal. When he tried to run away. "You're not getting weaker, are you?"

Rather than answer, he busied himself with his blood-coated fingers and the shaky runes he was drawing. He painted as if he were copying a picture from his mind rather than someone who confidently read the symbols. There was a shakiness to his hands, which were normally as steady as a rock, and a slouch to his shoulders that betrayed the true state of his body. Even just a little movement left him winded, and his hand kept drifting back to the hole in his chest. It came and went, but the evidence was overwhelming.

Time slid through her fingers—both his and her brothers'. The only one who could afford to waste it was the unseelie, and that was precisely what it wanted her to do. It chased her slowly, yet never strayed far from her. Confident, ancient, and unconcerned—it clung to her the way a shadow would, and she could not escape it no matter how much she ran. But the moment she stopped, she was no longer the hunter. In order to avoid becoming its prey, she couldn't waste any more time.

Holding her nose, she tipped her head back and downed the contents of the vial in a quick gulp. Like chalk and earth, the ichor clung to her tongue, her throat, and everything it touched on its way down. Ice spread through her limbs, and she curled her fingers to keep them from numbing completely. Black spots swirled in her vision, growing steadily until the void was all she could see. Her legs gave out. Cold air was suddenly rushing past her. Gritting her teeth, she threw her hand out and caught the bars, steadying herself against them before she hit the stone.