Page 119 of Harbinger

A pit opens in my stomach. No, it collapses, the sensation so abrupt it steals my breath, and everything else falls out of focus but those two words.

I was.

But I can still see his death. His body convulsing. The blade slippery and warm in the palm of my hand. Blood so dark it’s nearly black soaking into the mud beneath my knees. The copper tang of it mixing with smoke, and my stomach churning. He’s heavy in my arms.

I can still feel the ache in my muscles.

And now, he’s standing in front of me.

I lost so much today. It’s no surprise that my mind is going, too.

I look away, unable to bear it, and my gaze settles on the bed, on the spot where the book has left a dent in the otherwise crisp sheets. If that’s real … I drag my gaze to him again. The hair pulled back at the nape of his neck is still damp, as if he washed it in a hurry. His face and hands have been scrubbed raw, but soot still shadows the creases of his knuckles, and there’s a dark, ruddy smear under one ear. The patterns on his skin have softened back to silvery white scars. His white shirt is clean, the collar open in a way his uniform never allows. But his canvas pants are stiff with dried blood, the bottoms of them eaten away by ragged scorch marks.

I take a slow step from the window, then another before I can lose my nerve. I continue even as something inside me braces as if I’m walking toward a ledge and not a man.

Bishop tenses as I lift a trembling hand out—and stop less than an inch from his chest.

If I touch him, he’ll vanish.

That’s how it works. Ghosts evaporate at contact. Hallucinations don’t survive reality. I can’t bear the possibility that this is some cruel trick of my mind. Not after everything else.

His face remains blank as he watches me, but it is his face. His eyes are the same winter blue beneath his dark lashes, his nose still slightly crooked, his mouth set in that impatient line it forms when he’s holding something back.

“If you’re a ghost …” I murmur, my fingers hovering so close I swear I feel the heat of his body. I can’t bring myself to move them that last fraction of an inch.

Bishop sighs, the gruff sound sending a jolt to my core, and grabs my hand to close the distance himself.

His fingers are warm and callused. I gasp and pull back out of instinct, but he doesn’t let go. He presses my palm flat against his chest. The body underneath doesn’t yield. His thumb brushes the back of my hand once. Slow. Deliberate.

Daring me to feel it. Feel him.

His warmth sinks into my skin, and beneath my hand: a heartbeat.

Strong. Steady. Alive.

My own heart stutters, then accelerates wildly, pounding against my rib cage. This can’t be happening. It isn’t fair.

I yank my hand away, but only so I can dig my fingers into his arm and pinch him.

“Fuck.” Bishop grunts like he’s biting back a yelp, but he doesn’t stop me.

I push his sleeve up, looking for the burns from the fire, for the blisters that had already started to form when he died.

There’s nothing there now.

No burns. No scars. Just normal, healthy skin, apart from more of those strange patterns that he hides.

Something fragile flares in my chest. A stupid, treacherous spark I don’t deserve. A thousand questions crowd my tongue, all of them desperate and ridiculous and terrifying. But I don’t ask them. Instead, my voice cracks around a single name. “Kieren?”

Bishop stiffens. Regret flickers across his face and is gone in an instant, dousing that spark. The finality of that look settles heavily in my bones.

Kieren is dead.

I shouldn’t have even asked.

I sure as fuck shouldn’t have hoped.

Bishop shifts his weight as if he might step closer, might reach for me. The space between us contracts, charged with the promise of comfort.