“You’re a liar!” The words were an explosion. Luc whirled around to face her. He reached for something in his back pocket—a wallet—and then fished out an old, creased photograph. He leaned forward suddenly, and for the craziest second, Corinthe thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he slammed the photograph on the wall, just a few inches from her head. “Where is she?”
Corinthe froze. The picture showed a girl with a long tangle of black hair, green eyes, a slightly crooked smile.
And a jasmine tattoo on the inside of her right wrist.
It seemed that the room shifted around Corinthe.
“I … I do know her,” Corinthe whispered, even as an alarm was going off in her head. Wrong, all wrong. Too many coincidences.
Except there were no coincidences.
Luc’s jaw hardened. He drew back and shoved the picture down into his wallet. “I knew it.”
“No. I saw her. I tried to help her, but …” She shook her head. She remembered the blaze of hot panic that had suddenly overtaken her, the way she had hacked at the flower that enclosed the girl. “I didn’t know she was your sister.”
“Tell me where to find her.” Luc’s voice was cold again.
An idea occurred to Corinthe. It was a risk—he would know, finally and for sure, that she wasn’t a mortal. But she couldn’t stand the way he was looking at her—the hatred in his eyes. “I can show you,” she said, licking her lips, which were dry again. “Bring me that bowl of water.” She pointed to the cart Rhys had set up earlier.
Luc stared at her for several long seconds before moving to the stand next to the bed. He carefully set the bowl in front of Corinthe, then straightened up and crossed his arms. Clearly, he still thought she was—what had he said?—off her meds. Crazy. Another human word.
It didn’t matter. She would give him this gift; she would show him.
Corinthe unfastened one of the crystal earrings from her ears—miraculously, they were still in place—and used the sharp tip to pierce her pointer finger. Luc let out a small noise of protest. A tiny drop of blood welled up. She shook it out over the water, wincing even as she did. She was so weak.
Life from life; even now, she could feel her energy swirling away.
The blood writhed across the water, dispersing. As it stilled, an image coalesced: Jasmine lying in the middle of a giant flower, encased by the bright blue petals. Vines wrapped around her arms and one pierced her skin right below the tattoo. She looked paler than before, and blue veins crisscrossed her skin.
Luc exhaled. A look of intense pain passed across his face, as though he’d been hit. He sat heavily on the bed next to Corinthe, leaning closer. His shoulder pressed against hers, and for a second she focused on the feel of him so close, on his smell.
Energy—pure and white—passed suddenly through her body, just as it did when she drew it from the gardens at the rotunda.
Her pulse sped up.
She could stitch from people, too? There had never been a need to; she had always been strong enough that the trees, the oceans, and the earth below sustained her in Humana.
Luc reached out and touched the reflection. It became distorted; Jasmine’s image rippled.
“What … what the hell is happening to her?” Lucas could barely get the words out.
“She’s being turned into a Blood Nymph.”
Corinthe looked up at the sound of Rhys’s voice. She hadn’t heard him come back into the room. Neither had Luc, judging by the way he jumped. Mags sat on Rhys’s shoulder, still, uncharacteristically silent, like an onyx statue. Corinthe stared at Rhys, who held a small vial in his hand. How was he able to see—to feel—the image in the water?
“A what?” Luc asked.
“It means she’ll die soon.” Rhys was carrying a woven basket. He set it on a wooden table, and began sorting through it. “A part of her will, anyway. Her body will live. She’ll have to feed in order to survive.”
“Feed?” Luc nearly choked on the word. “What does that mean?”
Neither Corinthe nor Rhys answered. Corinthe felt a pulse go through her. Pity. She had a sudden urge to squeeze Luc’s hand. But she didn’t.
Luc stood up, nearly overturning the bowl of water. The image of Jasmine broke apart. He raked a hand through his hair. “Can I stop it? Can I save her?”
“Maybe,” Rhys said. He stood, frowning, staring at the ground. Then he said, “I’ve heard say the nectar from the Flower of Life can cure any poison known or unknown, though I’ve never had the opportunity to see it myself.”
Corinthe’s entire body went rigid and she pursed her lips—not daring to say a word. Her heart beat frantically, thumping against her chest so hard she was certain they’d hear.
Rhys placed the vial down and walked over to the fireplace, where he pulled something out of a recessed hole in the cave’s wall. He brought it back to the bed.
The book had a faded leather cover and yellow edges, held closed by a rawhide string that wrapped around it several times. Rhys carefully unwound the string and thumbed through page after page of intricate sketches of flowers and wildlife. If it had been another time, Corinthe would have asked for him to slow down so she could study them. Whoever did them was a talented artist; the flowers looked like they were growing right off the page, and Corinthe felt that if she could only handle the book herself, she might be able to draw life straight out of it. She felt desperate, thirsty for a life energy to replenish what she had lost.
Rhys’s fingers moved deftly over the illustrations, as though he was feeling their contours. “Grows only at the center of the universe. I have a picture somewhere. … Here it is. The Flower of Life.” Rhys tapped his finger on the page.
Corinthe sucked in a breath. It was true. She knew that flower, had seen it thousands of times. Seeing the great purple petals, the fernlike leaves that feathered around the stem, made her ache with longing. There was only one growing in the Great Gardens; as a Fate, she had often stared through the heavy iron gate that guarded the Gardens to wonder at its beauty.
The Flower of Life was in constant bloom, surrounded for miles by fields of lush grass in either direction. It grew in the very edge of the Great Gardens of Pyralis Terra. But as a Fate, she was forbidden to approach it.
And she knew that anyone who plucked it would die.
“This flower will cure her?” Luc sounded skeptical.
“Any poison, known or unknown,” Rhys repeated. “The nectar is the only antidote.” He pointed to the center of the flower.
Corinthe’s pulse sped up; already, she felt stronger as she began to formulate a plan in her head.
Luc.
Luc was the answer. He would bring her to Pyralis.
If she could stitch his energy—if she could draw it the way she drew it from the flowers and trees—she just might make it to Pyralis. And once they arrived at the gardens, there would be plenty of life to pull from. She could restore her former strength and finish her final task as an Executor. She could kill him and reclaim her rightful place in Pyralis at last. But she had to convince Luc that he needed to take her with him. …
Luc had returned to the bed. He pulled the book onto his lap and studied the picture of the flower intently, as if he were memorizing it. Dark hair fell over his eyes, and she had a wild urge to brush it away. He shifted a fraction of an inch closer, so their knees touched through their jeans, and she tried to ignore how good it felt to be touching him, even in this small way. Suddenly, the thought of hurting him made her feel sick.
But it was the only way.