as Phaedra, but they didn’t have that time. Was this how it always felt? The boundaries of host and possessor slowly blurring? Too slowly—she couldn’t teach Forsythia how to use the magic she’d studied for decades in only a moment.
“You can’t stop me,” Phaedra said. “You know that, don’t you? You can barely stand.”
Another awkward step, then another, and they were close enough to touch. Had Phaedra struck her, Isyllt would have been doomed, but she only watched, her demon gaze dimming with grief.
She cupped Isyllt’s cheek. “You loved him.”
“More than anything.”
“I know what it’s like to lose that much, to live with the loss.” She leaned her forehead against Isyllt’s, cold breath drifting over both their faces. “I can take the pain. It would be a mercy.”
“Yes,” Isyllt whispered. “Mercy.” She had no anger left, no strength, but she could do that much.
There. She tugged Forsythia’s attention to the cold place she carried beneath her heart. That’s where the nothing lives. Release it.
She pressed her cheek to Phaedra’s ruined one; the woman’s hair tickled her lips. “Take everything.”
Phaedra cradled her face in cold hands and magic crawled over them. Isyllt expected pain, but none came, even as beads of blood welled from her pores—that was a relief, at least. The blood rolled toward Phaedra, sinking into her skin.
The empty place opened and the nothing poured out with her blood. Forsythia didn’t have the knowledge to control it, and Isyllt didn’t have the strength. They didn’t need to. Phaedra drank it down.
She realized her mistake a moment later. She pulled away, but Isyllt caught her hands and held her. The world dulled around the edges, but she had a demon’s strength.
Phaedra rallied her magic, but it unraveled beneath the tide of entropy. Brown skin bruised and bled as the sorcery that kept it fresh dissolved. Stolen flesh sank, shriveled, cracked.
Isyllt knew she had to stop or the nothing would take her too, but she was too cold, too tired, and the emptiness soothed her with promises of dark and quiet. Phaedra’s wrists snapped in her grip, disintegrating like snow and ashes. With nothing to lean on, Isyllt fell.
As she crumpled, she heard Forsythia whisper farewell.
CHAPTER 22
It was warm in the darkness, warm and still and soothing, save for the occasional interruption of voices and hands. Isyllt would have floated there forever, but nothing so peaceful could ever last. Black gave way to red, and then to brilliant gold as her crusted eyes cracked open. Tears blinded her and she tried to sink into the dark again. The voices returned, calling her out. A warm hand brushed her brow and she flinched.
“She’s waking up.”
“Isyllt?”
Her mouth was dry and chapped, sour with thirst and sleep. Her tongue peeled free from the roof of her mouth, but the only sound she could manage was a croak.
“Water,” someone called. Wet cloth swabbed her lips. Tepid moisture leaked between her lips, the sweetest she’d ever tasted. “Careful,” the voice said, and the rim of a cup touched her lower lip, clicked against her teeth as she tried to move. Water sloshed down her chin and across her chest, just enough spilling into her mouth to make her choke. The cup vanished and she nearly sobbed; she’d never been so thirsty.
A shadow moved in front of the blinding light and she had a heartbeat’s impression of a small room, and walls that rippled dizzyingly. The walls became curtains with another glimpse, the light a lantern hanging from the ceiling.
St. Alia’s. It had been a long time since she’d woken up in a hospital bed.
“What happened?” It took two tries to shape the sounds properly.
“You did something stupid.”
She tried to laugh at Khelséa’s dry voice, but it turned into a rasping cough, which gave way in turn to tears.
“Careful,” the inspector said, “or they’ll make me leave. Ciaran won’t be back for an hour.”
Isyllt wiped her eyes, alarmed at the heaviness of her limbs. The halo around the lamp slowly faded till she could make out Khelséa and the rest of the room. “He’s been already?”
“We’ve taken turns watching you, he and Dahlia and I.”
She tried to sit up and quickly abandoned the idea. “How long have I been here?”
“The better part of a decad. It’s the fourth of Ganymedos.”
“Saints.” Then she noticed the white armband on Khelséa’s orange coat. The woman’s skin was dull with fatigue, cheeks hollow and circles carved beneath her eyes. “The riots?”
“Burnt out, with half of Elysia. The city is calming, slowly.