“Yes,” I say with a shudder, staring into the gaping hole in the center of the cavern, where nothingness swarms in a void.
There’s a sense that pricks at the back of my neck, one that signals that perhaps I should be afraid of this creature, but I am not afraid.
This creature knows me.
It sees and hears the darkness and does not judge me for it.
“How do I save her?” I ask, and though part of my mind wonders how I can expect this creature to know, the thought is quickly blanketed in silky sheets of trust.
Shadows lick from the creature, reaching out. At first, I think they’ll consume me, but then they stop at Blaise, caressing her pale cheeks with the care of an adoring mother.
This child is one of mine, it croons. She does not know her mother, though I wish she would.
“I could wake her for you.”
That won’t be necessary, the being snaps.
“Who are you?” I ask, suddenly dying to know who this being is who promises help to my wife.
I am Marthala, says the shadows, though I suppose it is not my name you wish to hear, but the solution to your problem.
Shame washes over me that I’ve managed to offend this being, the very being who’s trying to help.
You wish your wife would never grow aged, says the creature, curiosity slipping into her tone.
I shake my head. “No. No, it’s not the aging process that terrifies me. I just…I can’t stand the thought of her dying. My life is an eternity compared to hers, and I can’t bear the thought that hers will just be a turn of the page in mine. She’s my story,” I add, worrying that maybe the creature won’t understand. “I can’t have it be over in the turn of a page. What’s the point of the rest of my story if hers has already come to a close?”
Nothing, nothing is the point, muses the creature, and though it seems to understand, I can’t help the dread that snakes up my spine.
Blaise stirs in my arms. I’d forgotten I was even holding her. Perhaps I should wake her. Perhaps if Marthala can save Asha, she knows how to save Nox, too.
As soon as the idea brushes my consciousness, it slips away from me.
The girl you hold embodies a scourge—the bane of the moon trapped on the earth. It is why she cannot bear the light of the sun, why she is cursed to slink in the shadows. Children of darkness cannot withstand the light. It is a wicked thing, exposing our flaws and wishing for us to be grateful to it.
“I don’t wish for Asha to bear the curse,” I say. “But if there’s a way to give her immortality without invoking it—”
There’s always a curse, my child. Always a price that must be paid, says the creature, almost contemplative.
“Then let me be the one to bear it,” I whisper.
The shadows lick in curiosity around my feet, like a cat intertwining itself between my ankles.
What is your limit, my child?
“Nothing,” I say. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”
Ah. Well, then. I suppose you’ll be eager to hear the price is within your grasp.
I’m not sure why, but my gaze falls to Blaise, her eyes still and peaceful in slumber.
Immortality lies within her, but it can be severed from its master.
“How?”
What steals immortality away from a child of the night, young one?
I think back to the research I did in the libraries at Othian. “Sunlight against the skin.”
Marthala hisses.
“Or separating a heart from its master’s body.” My gaze falls to Blaise’s chest, rising and falling smoothly in slumber.
She was born of the ashes, though in the second generation, says the creature. Your wife could be born of the ashes as well. Take the girl’s heart and burn it for your wife to consume. The ashes would give life to the dead—they would certainly gift a living girl immortality.
I frown, pain thrumming against my temple. “If it can be done with Blaise’s heart, it could be done with another’s, could it not?”
Mmm, says the shadows, but when is the next time you’ll find a child of the night within your grasp? When is the next time it would be so easy? This opportunity might not stumble upon you again, says the shadow.
My ears attune to the gentle patter of Blaise’s heart against her chest. There would be a certain rightness to it, I suppose. Blaise has already died, has she not? Whatever life she’s been given is a bonus tacked on to the end of her mortality.
And I know Blaise suffers under the curse.
Asha wouldn’t suffer, not when this manner bypasses the consequences.
Or at least, the curse—the knowledge of what I had done to Blaise—would belong to me.
Blaise said herself that she drowns herself in misery. This way, I could make it painless for her. Provide her with a hint of my powers, enough to coax her into bliss, the only bliss she might ever find in this life.
