Queen of Nothing

Epilogue

As soon as Andre's spirit left my body, I fell. But I didn't hit the ground. A pair of strong arms caught me and hoisted me upright. I turned dazedly to see Tristan, freed from his restraints.

"You uh, alone in there now?" he asked hesitantly.

A stupid grin broke out across my face and I nodded. A bad idea, since the gesture made my head throb with pain. I winced, vaguely recalling the way I hit the concrete moments earlier.

Worry twisted his features at my distress. "Let's get you out of here."

He slung my arm over his shoulder and placed a guiding hand on my waist. My legs could barely hold me up, but I shambled forward with Tristan's help. We passed the fallen bodies of Sheridan's guards and I flinched. Another senseless waste of life for which the king was partially responsible.

Not anymore. He was dead. The full weight of it hit me then, and I could barely stand. Sheridan was dead. Tristan was alive. We were both alive. It was over.

My eyes landed on a familiar head of blonde hair and I gasped. "James!" I called out, the memory of his careless shooting resurfacing after being buried by all of the chaos that happened after.

Tristan saw and the two of us hurried over as fast as my weakened state would allow. I fell to my knees by James's side and turned him over, fearing the worst. His chest held several bullet wounds and blood trickled from his mouth, but his skin did not hold the waxy gray sheen of desiccation and death. He'd live, but he needed blood immediately.

I glanced around and spied a switchblade on the floor, fallen from the jacket of one of Sheridan's dead guards. I grabbed for it and readied to cut my wrist, but Tristan reached down and snatched it away.

"You're in no shape to do that. Let me," he scolded.

I didn't protest, feeling both surprised and grateful. Tristan winced as he cut into his wrist and held his bloodied hand over James's mouth. James's throat bobbed as he swallowed, and I exhaled with relief. I heard a crunch and saw James's hand fly up to pin Tristan's wrist in place. Tristan shuddered in pain, but held still.

After an arduous minute, James's face was flushed with color. He'd had enough for now, I decided, and I helped pry Tristan's wrist from his fangs. James snarled and reached for it, his eyes red with hunger, but I held him back with relative ease. He was better, but not well enough for his full strength to return. Tristan tore off his right shirt sleeve – the one that wasn't covered in Michael Sinclair's blood – and wrapped it around the gash on his wrist.

James breathed hard, shaking his head as if to clear it, and when he looked up again I saw that the redness had faded from his eyes. His gaze snapped towards me and he grabbed my arms. "What happened?"

I glanced around the room full of bodies, and at the pile of shards that were once the King of the South. I had no idea where to begin. "It's over."

Through the wide doors that led out to the docks, I could see Daphne. She stood huddled at the edge of the pier, looking out over the river. I wondered why she was still here. I'd thought, and perhaps hoped, that she'd shamefully retreat back to her vanishing home and I wouldn't have to see her again. But a bizarre, traitorous part of me was glad she hadn't. It must have been that part that compelled me to rise and shuffle in her direction.

"Where are you going?" Tristan called after me.

I glanced back, but didn't reply. Didn't know what to say, how to explain this sudden need to hear what was on Daphne's mind. I suppose it was a yearning for closure. She'd put me through hell, and I desperately wanted to hear what in the world she could possibly say for herself.