I jerk my arm away, the ice-cold press of her fingers permeating through my body. The furious rise and fall of my chest gradually settle, and I stare at the void with shaky breaths, reeling from the last few seconds. It’s unmistakable, that feeling of complete emptiness and total surrender to Death.
Viola’s whisperer magic now flows through my veins.
“What did she say?” Viola asks, her hand rubbing my back.
“Only when the maiden and the crone die at the hands of the usurper will he be free,” I repeat, my eyes still on my sister’s limp body. “I… I have to…”
My throat is dry. I glance from Lyria, to Viola, to Beau. I don’t know what I have to do. “Gryff… someone needs…”
“Bring her in,” Viola says, and I lift my sister in my arms. She’s warm, and she’s still breathing, so why is she staring into nothingness?
Unable to think for myself, I do as she says and take Lyria to her room. As I lay her down in her bed, her eyes blink. For a moment, hope strings me along. “Lyria, can you hear me?”
No answer.
“Lyr, please… do anything.” Beau sobs next to me, kneeling on the floor beside Lyria’s bed. But her eyes don’t even flutter. She stares at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling, but it’s useless.
“Sy,” Beau says through tears. “Sy, she… Mrs. Carver…” He doesn’t finish his sentence.
It takes me a moment. Then blood rushes to my ears. My eyes go in and out of focus, and all the air leaves my lungs. I try to open my mouth three times to tell him no. No, it cannot be. Not Lyria. She cannot be mindtrapped like Victor’s mom, living like a shell of herself for the rest of her life. We don’t know the extent of the damage on her memories; we don’t know if she can see or hear us.
Impossible. Lyria would’ve accounted for this; she’d have found a solution to this already; it’s probably in her notes. “Where are her notes?” My voice breaks as I fall to the ground next to Beau. “Where the fuck are her notes?” I yell.
“Sy,” Viola tries, her soft hands gathering my head against her. I lean against the warmth of her abdomen and try to catch my breath. Grief and I should be well acquainted by now. So why does it feel like I’m drowning in quicksand, mourning a sister who’s still alive?
“They will send her to St. Fabian’s, Sylas. She can’t go there… she…” Beau leans his head on her bed. “She’ll end up like Mrs. Carver.”
Iknowwhat DOTS will do to her. It won’t try to fix her. It’ll shove her in a room, make sure she’s fed, and dismiss her like she’s dead. My sister, one of the most brilliant minds of our generation, doesn’t deserve this. And it’s all because of me. Deep down I knew her research would lead her to the same fate as Mom, and I didn’t stop her.
“I should never have let her go to that forsaken House!”
“Sylas.” Beau turns to me and grips my shoulder, pulling me away from Viola. “We’re not going through this again. Lyria wouldn’t want you to drown in guilt. She’s not dead; we don’t know the extent of the damage. We can fix this.”
“Delaney…”
“Not Delaney…” Viola trails off as she steps away from us. “Grimm.”
As she says the name, Beau and I stop in our tracks. We both get up, turn to her.
“Ysenia cannot hear him nor see him. And he cannot hear her nor see her. She didn’t hear what the puppet said. It was him.”
Viola was right. Grimm must have infiltrated Gorhail’s walls. I have to get to Paltro.
My fingers reach for Nyx, coiled asleep around Lyria’s arm. I run myknuckles along her scales. Aspiers know us better than we know ourselves. If she hasn’t left Lyria, there’s still hope. As long as my sister’s still in there, she will fight this.
“I’ll send an express courier to Gryff and Grayson,” Beau says.
I take one last look at my sister, her big brown eyes—Mom’s eyes— looking up.How could you let this happen again?they seem to ask. They seem to want me to bury myself in my guilt until it chokes me out of reason. But this time, I steel myself. Lyria is alive, and if Grimm freely wanders the halls of Gorhail, it’s not just my sister who’ll need saving.
Viola squeezes my hand. “Go,” she says. “We’ll take care of her.”
So I do.
Death magic is terrifying—the way it opens a line between the living and the dead. Sitting on a bench outside of Fang’s Nest, I spend a few moments listening to the slightest noise and any stray whispers, wondering if Lyria will join me. I think I’m going mad, but anything is better than having to face Paltro with the news.
Finally, I stand.
The powdery snow cushions the crunch of my combat boots as I march uphill to Paltro’s office. The wind picks up, and my head jerks around, looking for my sister each time. But it’s just the wind, and she’s not dead.