The Survivors: Point of Origin (book 2)

The Lay of the Last Survivor, pt. 2

            

 

Was I dying? Was he drinking too much? Unable to stop?

 

But he pulled away quickly, his level of control a marvel—I closed my eyes and reopened them three times to see that it was in fact Everett, not Mark, at my neck. When I found his gaze again, his eyes were wide with an emotion I couldn't read. It could have been fear, terror, or disbelief. And for one, fleeting second, I saw that golden-green sheen in his eyes I'd first fallen in love with in the California summer. Then he kissed me, without caution, without restraint, which was risky, I was sure. And though I knew it was odd, I was energized and pulled him close to me and kissed him in just the same way.

 

He swallowed hard, his efforts to catch his breath laborious. "Princess, are you okay?" he asked. I nodded, still unable to speak. He looked back at Ben and Mark, and then to me and whispered in my ear, "Did you feel it, too?"

 

I had felt it. I was—currently—feeling it. I nodded and managed a half-smile, though my expression must have been mostly dazed. I felt like part of me had been taken, inserted into him. A part of me inside of him. Him, a part of me. In an instant, Everett Winter had become a corner of my soul.

 

He lay back, trying to catch his breath, and I did the same, but as he moved even inches from me I felt a tug from deep in my chest and pressure in my throat. I reached out for him, and once I touched him, the pressure was alleviated. I had no idea what had happened.

 

Then, Ben's voice. "Sadie?" he asked, shaking.

 

"I'm okay," I said feebly. His body was pouring out waves of terror and protectiveness and mistrust. I got to my feet, trying to show Ben that they hadn't actually hurt me, and I reached for my neck. My fingers sank into the deep wound though, and Ben winced. Everett reacted quickly, milking himself for venom now as I'd seen Mark do before, and put a thin line of it over the wound. I only felt a tingle then, exactly as I had all the times they'd healed me before. Then it was over, like it'd never happened at all.

 

But Ben wasn't relieved.

 

"I'm sorry, Ben," I said. I couldn't undo what he'd seen.

 

He shook his head signaling he didn't want to talk about it. "What do I do with this?" he asked, the ingredients of the incomplete Fateor elixir cupped in his palms.

 

I said the prophecy, and the mixture turned silver-clear in his hands as it did the first time. I picked up his ancient copy of Beowulf and said, "Here, drop a little bit onto this."

 

Uneasily, Ben did as I said.

 

The book flew open and the pages flipped themselves, stopping at the prophecy. Lines before and after the prophecy were outlined in a glowing green.

 

But the pages began to flip again. The book splayed open so wide, the primeval spine groaned and cracked. Three consecutive pages stood erect and glowed crimson, the color we'd seen everywhere along Raven's sordid trail. Some on the red pages stood out in a luminous bright white.