Black Magic

Chapter Thirty

His body just. Goes limp. The heavy weight of him lands on me, smothering me like a blanket. Warm blood is already seeping into my clothes, soaking through to my skin. Venom is already buzzing through my veins but I push beyond it, getting my one good arm up, wrestling Victon's body off of me and onto his back next to me. Our arms are still touching.

I scramble away, struggling up onto my knees. For a second I can't help but stare. My dagger is still dug deep into his chest, blood staining the pale willow wood hilt. His eyes are closed, entire body still; it almost looks like he's sleeping. But—but he's not. It's over.

A cough interrupts my thoughts. I spin around to see Sixten still slumped against the wall, body limp, chest rising and falling in slow, shaky breaths. Shit—shit, he got thrown around a lot more than I did, he was already injured and probably low on blood—I struggle to my feet, a burning pain searing up my left arm with every movement. My head is still spinning, vision tilting to the side as I stumble over to Sixten.

"Sixten?" My knees give out under me and I land in front of him with a hard crack and a jolt of pain up my legs. "Shit—Sixten, you okay?" I reach for him with my good hand, fumbling at his shoulder, shaking it like I'm trying to wake him up from sleep. "C'mon, c'mon," his eyes are closed, his breathing is shallow, that has to be a bad sign, "open your eyes, look at me, are you okay? Please, just—" My magic pulses, the darkness terrified—and it's all together now, I can't distinguish them anymore, I can't even cage the darkness again because it's not a separate entity—

Sixten's eyes flutter open. Dull silver glows dimly from the shadows cast across his face; for a moment his gaze seems unfocused, and then it sharpens. His shoulders tense. "Your eyes." It comes out a croak. He—he said that before. He mentioned my eyes when I first came and found him. Why? What does that even mean?

"What about my eyes?" Maybe if I keep him talking, he'll get more clarity, he won't pass out. I can't—I don't know anything about first aid, but—I don't want to be alone. "Sixten, what about my eyes?"

"They're black." My heart clenches. Sixten hasn't stopped staring, blinking slow and languid. "Pure black."

"What—why? Why are they—" I don't understand. Black eyes—that doesn't make sense, that shouldn't be possible. Black eyes—nothing has black eyes. Nothing has ever had black eyes. Or—except maybe demons, but demons aren't real, demons are silly human superstitions. And—and witches don't have black eyes.

"Desdemona." Sixten's eyes have closed again, his head lolling off to one side. Shit—shit—if only I was better at healing spells, if only I wasn't complete shit at them. "Desdemona." Pale fingers brush against my knee, his hand still sitting on the ground like he doesn't even have the energy to lift it. "I'm sorry." His head slumps.

"Sixten?!" My voice is shrill but shit—shit—is he—he can't—I shake his shoulder but he doesn't move, he doesn't respond. "Sixten, c'mon, please open your eyes, don't—" But his chest rises, slow and shaky—he's still alive. Relief floods my system and I slump forward, head falling against his shoulder. "Thank God," I murmur, heart pounding in my chest. "Okay. Just. I can try to help. I just need my dagger, let me go get my dagger."

I turn around—and there's nothing there.

All I see is the doorway, opening up onto an equally empty hallway. The stain of Victon's blood is still fresh on the ground, glinting near-black in the darkness, but his body—he's gone. That—that's not possible. I stabbed him with silver, deadly to vampires, and it was right through his chest, it should've gone through his heart . . . and I didn't hear anyone leave, or come in. This doesn't make sense.