When he pulled away from Regina, Eustace patted him on the shoulder, and immediately, at the touch of his hand, Henry thought of Holly Farrell and how distraught Eustace had been when she’d left Hemlock Veils forty-nine years ago. All because of him.
“Eustace…” he began, not knowing what to say.
Eustace smiled beneath his shaggy, coarse beard, making the many wrinkles around his eyes deepen. It said he had forgiven him. “We all love you.”
Henry chuckled for the first time since becoming an un-cursed human again. His old friend, now his new one. It all felt strange, and so liberating. “Thanks, Old Man. For being her friend, for welcoming her here. You were the first.”
“She’s a fighter, Henry. She’s always fought for you. She won’t stop now.”
Chapter 28
Elizabeth sensed Henry’s presence in a way she never had. His determination to hold onto her was strong in this place—this transitive existence. She did still exist somewhere, as though in waiting, but not a single one of her senses graced her. Nothing to hear, nothing to see—not even darkness or light. Without the help of her physical body, she couldn’t feel her surroundings—if indeed her surroundings were in physical form. She had only the warmth and the feelings inside her. So while in death’s waiting room, she allowed herself to revel in her soul’s tether to Henry one last time.
His presence, she realized, was all she sensed here. As though it had become a molten sea, she swam in it and it was inside of her at the same time, flowing through her limbs and in her veins. It was love, a comforting familiar home, and it was him. She was with him and she wasn’t. Somehow he sustained her, and even if she couldn’t feel this warmth—this love, this presence of Henry—the rest of her soul’s existence, she would be okay with that. Because nothing filled her with more rightness than knowing his suffering had ended.
She’d saved him; she felt it. She remembered nothing after their goodbye, his beastly face above and his thoughts shoving frantically into hers, telling her to live. She had fought them away, pushed them from her awareness, because with them filling her, it was impossible to give up.
While recalling this, she felt jerked from death’s waiting room, and knew it was time. The warmth bathing her cooled, and in this corner of her mind that held her captive, she wondered what would follow, what next step of death awaited her. It was the absence of Henry, perhaps, that made her cold. In an instant, he was gone: no warmth, no love, no presence. And before she could gasp from the change, her physical senses returned full force. Her heart beat wildly, franticly, and with a breath forceful enough to push her upright, her eyes ripped open.
A medical room, she thought with a heaving chest—a small doctor’s office. She sat upright on an examination table, breathing so heavily her head spun. Her heart beat in her throat and all throughout her, and while puzzling over this, she brought her index and middle finger to her neck, feeling her rapid pulse. How was this possible? Where was she?
Then, in the moment she saw Arne, it hit her like a wave, crashing against her and pulling her under. She was alive. She was in Hemlock, in the clinic, and Arne’s bloodshot eyes—wide with surprise—waited to offer bad news.
“Elizabeth,” he breathed, shooting to his feet and dropping his blanket to the floor.
With hyperventilation around the corner, she couldn’t respond, and she put her head in her hands. Blood covered her shirt as though it had been slathered on with a brush—the same shirt she’d been wearing when she’d been stabbed. She felt her hands over her heart, searching, but there was nothing. No abrasion, no fresh blood.
The realization that she’d failed—the biggest failure of all failures in her life—hit her chest in a physical way, taking her breath. It hadn’t worked, her sacrifice. And if it hadn’t worked…“No,” she managed, her eyes shooting to Arne. She couldn’t read his expression, since he appeared as a swirling blur through her tears.
“You’re all right, Elizabeth.” He touched her, and for some reason it angered her. She pulled her hand away and stood. The window, high and barred, told her it was sometime in the night.
“You’re alive,” Arne said, as though she didn’t understand.
A sob threatened, beginning in her chest and tightening her throat into a painful lump, but she inhaled and pushed her way through the door.
“Elizabeth, wait. He—”
“I have to find him,” she said, and froze when nearing the glass doors. Dozens upon dozens of small, flickering lights floated in the air outside the clinic, some low to the ground, others at her eye level—like fireflies frozen in place. She pushed through the door and nighttime air chilled her wet cheeks. The lights near the ground rose, and there were faces, too, lit by them. The faces watched her in wonderment, some mouths hanging open. Regina, Eustace, even Taggart. The fireflies were actually candles, and every soul held one, as though she had died and they were the welcome party in her next life.
“You’re alive,” Regina said, and others began talking too, every voice at once. Most simply said her name, but all approached, all surrounded her. These faces and outstretched arms moved her, but she had to find him.
“Please,” she began, pushing through them, through the hands. The need for him swelled inside her and by the time she reached the edge of the crowd, her breathing was shallow. She faced the forest, trying to keep it together, and with the crowd at her rear, she sensed him. She sensed him the way she used to, the way she had when she was unconscious, and with her relief came a stab of disappointment; she had failed him.
But with him behind her, everything felt right again.
“Henry,” she said in a breath and turned. But the version of him she expected wasn’t before her. No longer the beast of the night, he stood as a man wearing a flannel shirt and disheveled hair. His eyes were so wide it made her wonder if she was in fact a ghost, come back to tarry with him. But she was physically here. She had died, and somehow he had brought her back.
“Elizabeth.” Before she knew it, they collided: lips, arms, and hearts. With their souls together and her chest ignited, her body felt more alive than it ever had, invigorated and strong. She grasped his hair and had to pull away from his lips, since her breath felt impossible to catch.
“Henry, you’re you.” She felt over his face, over the tears that wetted his beard, and seeing him here, under the stars, made her eyes spill over. It was a miracle, and still she wasn’t sure what was real. “How…?”
He grasped her hands, pulling them close to his heart, and a bandage wrapped his palm. “The Cursed and the Curse Breaker,” he barely whispered.
A peculiar sensation stirred her heart: a tightness, on the verge of pain but not quite. His blood had saved her. It was their blood now, and nothing had ever felt more right than their oneness. He belonged to her, more than a lover belongs to his mate. He was her Absolon, and she was awed that they would live a life together, uncontrolled by curses—touched by magic but free of it.
Her father had once told her, on his deathbed, that magic would save her life one day. She felt that touch of magic now, physically, as though it had accumulated inside her. A mass in the center of her chest. Had it always been here?