The Hour of the Crow

Chapter 33: Until Our Last Breath

Arran had always imagined his death to come swiftly, an axe's clean cut as the executioner let it fall on his neck. Or perhaps, if he'd been lucky, he would have slipped away in the dead quiet of the night, old and content in his bed, surrounded by his stolen riches. Never had he expected it to grind his bones and rattle his teeth, to melt his organs and skin the raw flesh of his throat as he coughed up the bloody mess. He hadn't pictured Zohra at his side while she dabbed his face and sweat-soaked chest with a wet cloth. He certainly hadn't counted on a snake holding his hand during his final hours.

At the peak of his fever, he dreamed about a god.

Onshra's blurred silhouette beckoned him closer with a hand made of shadows, his eyes burning with the crimson fires of the underworld. "You do not deserve peace, Arran Dir Akhta," he said as he ripped Arran's soul apart. Arran tried to scream, but blood clogged up his throat and glued his lips together. "Traitors do not belong in my glorious kingdom. Their eternity is one of suffering."

No amount of begging would convince the god. With every piece of his soul hollowed out, Arran sensed the monsters in the darkness creep closer, ravenous and with foaming maws.

When he jerked awake, he still saw them in the corners of Zohra's house, licking their jagged teeth. Only when Zohra propped his head up to make him drink, water or potion, did the monsters retreat and sleep sink its greedy claws into him once more.

His fever broke at last at noon, though he feared it would return for him soon. Zohra sat on a chair next to the sofa, her face weary and gray. Her left arm leaned heavily on her cane. When she noticed he was conscious, she forced a wan smile. "Hello there, monkey."

"Zohra." His voice cracked. With every word he spoke, small razor blades scratched the inside of his throat. "Where's Inna?"

"She left this morning, remember? She hasn't returned yet."

Dimly, he recalled a long-fingered hand stroking his damp hair. A kiss like the fluttering beat of a bird's feather on his lips.

"And my mother and sister?"

Zohra said nothing, but tapped her cane twice on the floor, loud enough to send Merriam hurtling out of the kitchen. Tears brimmed in his mother's eyes whilst she squatted by his side and kissed his cheek once, twice.

"Oh, Arran," she cried, her skin pulled taut around her fists. "I thought you'd never wake up again."

Weak as he was, he found himself longing for her warm embrace. In his childhood, she used to tell him that a hug and a kiss would make the pain go away. "I'm still here, maia."

"Adira went to seyine Falita's shop to make up some excuse about your mother's absence from work," Zohra explained, slowly pushing herself to her feet. "Now stop worrying that big brother's heart of yours, or all my efforts will have been for naught."

Too tired to argue, he closed his eyes. Zazi's tail brushed his wrist.

Maybe it hadn't been such a great idea to make love to Inna after all. The strain it had put on his already withering health might have proven fatal if it hadn't been for Zohra's sheer stubbornness in keeping him alive.

Still, not a bone in his body regretted it.

Two sharp knocks shook the front door in its hinges. Everyone in the room stiffened. Arran bolted upright in a dizzying motion, but Merriam ushered him back into the cushions with a trembling finger pressed to her lips. She traded an anxious glance with Zohra, who nodded once and limped to the door to answer.

"Who's there?"

"Open the door, ma'am. We have received an anonymous tip-off that this house harbors two fugitives." The guard's commanding voice raised the hair on Arran's arms.