water. I kept throwing myself sideways as hard as I could, inch by inch, until finally my head was a foot away from hers.
Then everything in my body went limp, and I couldn’t get any closer. “Becca, look at me,” I begged, and the older woman’s eyes lifted up to focus on my face.
“My aim was for shit,” she whispered with a weak smile.
I almost sobbed, but I didn’t have the strength. “You did great. I can barely move.”
“Had less of . . . the honey . . .”
That was right; she’d had only a little of the tea. But now she was fucking gutshot. “How bad is it?” I asked as I tried to work my closest hand toward her. My fingers weren’t even twitching, they were so weak.
“I’m dying, Lex,” Becca said simply. She didn’t seem upset, or even surprised, as though she’d always expected this moment.
“Take the witch bag off.”
She gave me a blank look. “The necklace that Beau gave you,” I said urgently. “Please, can you get it off?”
Hesitantly, Becca moved her hand away from her stomach, the blood flowing more freely as soon as the pressure let up. She reached up with agonizing slowness, finally getting her fingers wrapped around the leather cord. “Pull, you have to pull it,” I pleaded.
Wincing, Becca pulled, and after a moment the bag broke loose in her hand. She dropped it next to her, returning her hand to clutch her stomach.
Without hesitating, I dropped into my boundary mindset, looking her over. It was as I’d feared—yellow death-essence was leaking out of her. “No no no no,” I chanted, struggling to move. I could feel a tidal wave of exhaustion rushing toward me—getting close to Becca had used up everything I had—but I still tried to lift my arms. If I could just cut my arm and get my blood into her system, I could delay her death, like I had once with my brother-in-law.
I pushed as hard as I could, until I was ready to throw up from weakness, but it was no good. The most I could do was inch my hand toward her. I had no way to cut myself, no way to get close to her wound.
“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, though I felt like I didn’t have the strength to cry. “I’m so sorry.”
Becca slid out the arm that had been tucked beneath her, using it to clutch her stomach. She slid her free hand along until she could touch my fingers.
“Just hold on, Becca,” I said, my voice a whisper now. “The honey will wear off and—and—”
She gave me a weak smile. “You know, I always figured I’d go out protecting a client . . . but I never thought the client was the one who’d kill me.”
“I should have seen it.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Becca said tiredly, but there was a wan smile on her face. “I’ve spent every day with her and I didn’t see it. This wasn’t your fault. I don’t know you, but I know how soldiers carry their deaths. I won’t let you carry mine.”
Tears were still leaking out of my eyes, but I didn’t have the breath to sob. “I think . . . you’re gonna make it,” Becca said, her voice beginning to fade. “And I want you to promise me you’ll get that little bitch.”
“Promise,” I whispered, though it came out in a slur.
“Good.” Becca’s eyes fluttered and then closed.
A few minutes later, while Becca’s breath was still coming in shallow jags, I lost consciousness. It was probably a mercy.
If I dreamed, I didn’t remember it later. The next time I opened my eyes, the sun had traveled most of the length of the barn, and Becca was still beside me. I knew she was dead just by looking at her.
Then I felt the gleaming.
It was just like the professor back in Boulder, only even stronger: a pull, a terrifying magnetism that was as unavoidable as it was powerful. I dropped into my boundary mindset and saw Becca’s spirit, her form a soft yellow glow. She wasn’t lying on the ground with her body, like the professor had. She was sitting in the midst of it with her knees drawn up, hugging them to her chest. Her eyes stared at nothing.
“Becca,” I said softly. I felt a little stronger now, but it was too late. Too late to save her.
She blinked, her gaze sort of wandering its way to me. Her eyes widened, as if