Page 31 of Incoronate
The only thing thatdidn’tbelong in this equation was the Horsemen and their damned Power of Four magic. Except that was an even bigger dead end, seeing as the spell that anointed me had been built on old, powerful Angel magic that no one on earth knew how to wield. The kind of divine working that no modern Caster could replicate, let alone undo. You didn’t neutralize magic like that. You just endured it.
Or you know, you didn’t.
I looked down at my arms, at the black veins that had crawled past my upper arms and spread across my shoulders and collarbone like dark fingers reaching for my throat. They had even spread to my waist and the tops of my thighs. Intricate, ugly patterns that pulsed with each heartbeat, as though something vile and unholy were living there.
It was spreading faster than I could keep up with, and I knew it was a bad sign. I could feel it in the way my fever kept climbing, in the way my thoughts grew hazier with each passing hour, in the way the simple act of breathing had started feeling like work.
This wasn’t something I could heal from. It wasn’t something I could tame or outlast or wait out.
I was simply…dying.
The thought should have terrified me. Maybe it would have, a few days ago. But now, through the haze of fever and exhaustion and pain, it just felt inevitable. Like watching a tsunami roll in from miles away and knowing there was nowhere left to run.
And through it all, the Horsemen were still there. Looking for weak points in my mind to slip in and distort whatever was left of it. For openings to force me past my pain and pull me back into line beside them. Dominic had been there beside me each time, using his compulsion to dull the pull and soothe the ache inside my body as much as possible. And when even that had stopped working, he gave me his blood in the hope that its healing properties would somehow help. And for a brief, blessed window of time, ithadactually worked. The voices and their incessant coercion had retreated and even the fever had dropped a few degrees.
But it hadn’t lasted.
It was a borrowed pause that gave me thirty to forty minutes of relief before the pull had come roaring back with a vengeance. Before the voices had started clawing at the inside of my skull again, demanding obedience, demanding violence, demanding I fulfill the purpose they’d etched into my bones.
It was a temporary solution to a permanent problem.
That was pretty much all we could manage now.
“He’ll be here soon,” said Trace, though I wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure me or himself.
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I just leaned my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes, trying to block out the black lines from my vision. Trying not to think about how muchworse this was going to get, or how much time I actually had left.
At some point, I drifted off again, finding myself in and out of consciousness like a boat untethered from its mooring, pulled by currents I could no longer control. Each time I surfaced, Trace was there. His cheek against my head. His arm unshaken against mine or around me. The cuffs between us keeping me exactly where I wanted to be.
Dominic was there too, but always someplace different each time I opened my eyes. Sometimes he was standing at the mantel, one hand braced against the stone, the other in his pocket. Sometimes he was in the chair opposite us, elbows on his knees, watching me with an intensity that bordered on frightening. And sometimes—when the fever spiked and my breathing grew thin and labored—he was right there in front of me, his fingers at my throat or wrist, checking my pulse to make sure I was still with him. Still alive.
Like if he didn’t feel the beat for himself, I might slip away entirely.
I was halfway to sinking back into unconsciousness when the sound of footsteps pulled me back to the present. This time, there were multiple sets, and they were hurrying down the corridor with way too much urgency to be casual.
Trace tensed beside me as Dominic rose from his chair in one fluid motion, his body already positioned between me and the doorway. I sat up shakily, blinking hard to clear the sleep from my eyes. My head spun with the movement, but Trace’s free hand quickly came up to steady me against him.
Caleb appeared first, looking like he’d been dragged through hell backward. His copper hair was wild, like he’d forgotten to brush it before leaving the house, and there was a tightness around his mouth that looked a whole lot like exhaustion mixed with desperation.
To my surprise, Carly walked in behind him, her doe eyes wide and worried as they found me propped up on the sofa against Trace. Her hand flew to her mouth as she let out a little gasp and then rushed over to me, dropping to her knees in front of me but stopping just short of touching me, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed.
“Oh my god, Jemma. I came as soon as Caleb—” The words died in her throat as her gaze landed on the black lines spreading across my skin. Her face blanched as her hand went to cover her mouth again. “I-I’m so sorry.”
“For god’s sake, Carly, will you get a hold of yourself,” barked Morgan as she strutted into the living room a few seconds later, her red curls falling loosely around her shoulders. “She’s not dead.” She paused to look at me and then frowned as though she were considering taking her previous statement back. “Wow. You look like hell, girl.”
“Thanks,” I managed, too weak to even roll my eyes at her. I wanted to tell her I felt like it too, but I couldn’t seem to summon the energy for that either.
Carly’s hands were still shaking where they hovered above my forearm, her fingers trembling badly enough that I could see the movement even through my splotchy vision. “How long has it been spreading like this?”
“Since yesterday,” answered Trace, knowing I barely had the energy to sit up let alone answer questions. His voice turned rougher and more strained when he continued, almost as though hope were already a thing of the past. “It’s moving fast.”
“This is horrible.” Carly pulled back, her eyes glistening as she shook her head and turned back to her brother. “Caleb, you have to do something!”
“I’m aware, Car,” he said, shucking his letterman jacket off and then dropping his bag on the coffee table. Hestarted pulling things out in rapid order, as though working against a clock only he could see. A bushel of herbs, candles, vials containing murky, unidentified liquids, and scraps of parchment paper already marked with intricate symbols I didn’t recognize.
“Would you care to explain what this spell is supposed to accomplish?” asked Dominic, watching Caleb work with hawk-like eyes. He wasn’t even sipping his usual signature drink, which, that alone was cause for concern.
“The goal is to repair some of the damage the spell rot has done and hopefully slow it down before it reaches any of her major organs.” Caleb didn’t look up as he spoke, too focused on arranging the candles around the small bowl he’d placed on the table. “It’s not a cure but it might buy us more time.”
