Chapter 33 · Her Mother's Finger

Drake's not breathing.

I can see it—the way his chest just stopped moving. His lips are turning gray. The blood from Vera's sanctified blade is still spreading across his shirt, that silver sheen eating through the fabric, through his skin, straight into the mark on his throat.

Mara's hand is still locked around his neck.

"Let him go," I say. My voice comes out flat. Dead. "He's got nothing to do with this."

Mara tilts her head. All four hundred years of sleep didn't leave a single line on her face. She looks exactly like the portrait in the monastery's east hall—same sharp cheekbones, same black hair—but her eyes are wrong. Fully black. No iris, no white. Just endless dark that moves like smoke under glass.

"Nothing to do with this?" Her voice splits into layers. Three, maybe four people speaking at once. "Ella. Sweet girl. He's everything to do with this."

She squeezes. I hear something crack.

Drake's eyes roll back.

"Stop—"

"You bound him." Mara's smile stretches too wide. "I told you to. Four hundred years ago, I told you exactly what to do, and you did it. My smart, obedient daughter.