Wicked Saints (Something Dark and Holy #1) - Emily A. Duncan Page 0,90

was … hers? She didn’t know. She opened her mouth to ask him, because he would know, but something stopped her. She didn’t understand how he knew these things about magic; didn’t want to be swayed to his heretical point of view. But …

What if he’s right? He always seemed to be right about her, about magic. She didn’t understand.

“The things you could do,” he whispered. He touched his fingertips against hers and she had to swallow down her heart from where it lodged in her throat. A faraway look appeared in his eyes, but he blinked and it was gone. “We need to get out of here.”

She nodded. There was a second, a tremor, where she wanted to break into pieces and cry. She wouldn’t—she refused to crack so easily. But she threw her arms around him, fingers digging into his back, indulging in the comfort of his warmth.

He let out a startled breath and his hand weaved through her hair to cradle the back of her head. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he whispered, lips soft against her temple. “Let’s get you to someone who can see to the worst of your wounds.”

Nadya reluctantly pulled away. She reached out to the gods again as she reached for Malachiasz’s hand. He twined their fingers together without a word.

And, again, from the gods, she was met with silence.

* * *

Nadya looked up at the winding staircase with trepidation. The glass tower was beautiful, light glittering through the panes. It had more stairs than Nadya would be able to climb in her current state.

“I could—” Malachiasz started, but quickly fell silent when Nadya held up a hand.

“I will not be carried,” she said.

“It would be no trou—”

“Do not offer again.” But the reality of the situation hit her and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She felt dizzy, each wave of pain threatening to knock her flat.

The witch lived at the top of the spiral staircase. Apparently she was their best bet to getting Nadya any help at all. Malachiasz softly kissed the top of Nadya’s head.

“Are you certain?”

“Not at all,” she mumbled. She was in pain and tired and didn’t want to walk up however many thousands of stairs were in front of her.

She straightened, pulling away from Malachiasz and gripping the railing as she started up. He let out a frustrated breath behind her.

“I lived at the top of seven thousand stairs,” she said. “What’s a few more?”

Her head spun and she swayed backwards. She gripped the handrail enough to twist herself around so she was sitting instead of toppling down the stairs.

Malachiasz leaned against the railing. “Written in the history books will be the story of a Kalyazi cleric, killed before her time not by her Tranavian enemies, but because of a flight of stairs.”

Nadya let out a pained whimper. Cuts reopened and started to drip blood down her back. “I hate you.”

“I offered to help.”

She looked up at him. “Written in the history books will be the story of a deranged former Vulture, murdered—quite terribly—after making one too many awful quips.”

“Deranged?”

“Abomination is too biased a word. You have to stay objective in history.”

“That’s not even remotely true. Are you going to sit here all night? Someone is going to wonder where I am.”

She was fairly certain the world had begun to spin around her in addition to her already dizzy head. She held a hand out in front of her face and squinted at it. She was seeing far too many hands.

“Are you in shock, Nadya?”

She squinted up at him. “Is that what this is? You lose a lot of blood and you’re perfectly fine. I lose a lot of blood and I go into shock? How is that at all fair?”

He laughed. She grinned through her pain-filled haze. She liked the sound of his laugh. She held her hands out to him. He could at least help her stand.

As she rose, everything spun so hard around her she only had enough time to shift her footing so Malachiasz could catch her when she fainted.

* * *

Nadya woke for the third time that day, but this time it was on a chaise that smelled of mildew. There were bandages wrapped tightly around her torso and limbs. Her tattered dress had been replaced with a simple one of gray wool. She sat up slowly, every inch of her protesting.

“Ah, she awakens,” a voice said from across the room. “Good, it was growing awkward with this Vulture here. Never