Destiny's Blood by Marie Bilodeau (best authors to read .TXT) 📗

“She will live,” she continued. His eyes were wide with relief that came at the expense of her sister’s blood, “but at a greater price than you could ever understand.”

She broke her gaze from his, not caring to see the effect of her words. Looking out toward where she knew Mirial waited, her sight was haunted by her darker half. The vision confirmed one thing, at least. That Layela would live at least long enough to see the day when one of them would die before the other, to save a home they had never seen. She leaned back into the chair, the old leather creaking in greeting.

She had simply been arrogant to believe she could stop what a large fleet, a purple nebula and professional assassins couldn’t. Mirial would have her way, no matter what Yoma craved and desired.

I can’t stop it. She swallowed hard as peace descended on her.

I can’t stop it, but I can make sure it is my blood that is shed, not Layela’s.

i

The green blood, lifeless and growing thicker under the cold lights, caught Romero’s eyes and held them before he dared look further. He took another step forward, focused on the green liquid. His brow was covered with sweat, his mouth dry.

He had smelled death before, but never like this. He had inflicted it on others, had even felt their last moments. He had followed them with his powers until he could no longer do so, the connection broken as the flesh grew cold.

His eyes strayed upwards. The green blood gave way to a long, yellowing leg. The skin, perfectly smooth and enticing but hours ago, was already drying.

Despite his explorations, he knew very little about death.

Her ripped pants, soaked in green blood, revealed a tease of green thigh. Romero remembered the feel of his bare hand on the fabric. How soft and warm it had been.

After years of searching for an afterlife, both through his powers and Layela’s, he doubted much existed beyond the fear and the final breath. And never before had he really cared.

The wound was in the chest. The shirt ripped, the hole hardened and crusted over where ether had failed to heal her before the last breath was drawn.

It smelled fresh, like a lawn being cut. Romero’s stomach turned. Death was not supposed to smell good, not like this. He forced himself to look at her. Her face was still recognizable, but it was beginning to sink in where sap no longer pushed on her skin, and the skin itself was hardening without its constant feed. Her hair had yellowed and had mostly fallen out. He looked away for a moment, and in so doing, saw her hands.

She had died with her hands covered. Romero’s vision blurred. He knelt, not caring about the blood, and reached down to take her right hand in his own. He remembered her hand’s vitality and the joys and ether they had shared. So different, yet so alike.

He turned the hand over and gently pulled at the glove, working it around the pommel of her slim hand, over her thumb and four delicate fingers. It slipped off, a lifetime of wear on it. A lifetime of oppression.

The green hand seemed untouched by death. The fingernails were still perfect, their tips white, clinging to their colour as though in hope that one day they would be allowed to see sun again.

He turned the hand over. It was perfectly smooth and without prints, as smooth as the rest of her had once been. He swallowed hard, shifted a bit as the sap stuck to his knees, and pulled his own glove off with his teeth.

His dark fingernails, outlined by his orange skin, were trimmed painfully each day to keep them as comfortable in the gloves as possible. The glove fell in the sap and he didn’t care. He closed his hand around hers, her slenderness vanishing in his thick fist. But where his mind had exploded in light before, where the two had connected more deeply than he had ever believed possible, all that he felt now was her cold, withering hand, and no spark of life.

He clutched her hand and feared letting go, his instincts repulsed by her lack of reaction, as though it was his own heart that no longer pumped blood. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of freshly cut flowers and dead legacies.

A howl ripped from deep within his throat, its echo only adding to his grief.

i

“I’m fine.” Josmere clenched her teeth, refusing Layela’s help.

“Why must you always be so bloody stubborn?”

“Because I’m a Berganda!” Josmere forced herself to grin sideways at her, flicking loose strands of green hair to her back. Layela did not look impressed. Josmere shrugged, wishing she could tell Layela she just didn’t care if she lived or died now. There had been little left for her before, and now there was nothing at all. “Seriously. I am healing my wound. I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

Layela sighed in frustration. As the two of them reached the ladder, a howl sounded through the Destiny. The friends’ eyes met briefly, and Layela looked towards the ladder with newfound urgency.

“And I suppose you’re fine enough to climb this to the deck?” she asked Josmere, who nodded.

“I need my hands. One leg will do.”

Josmere grasped the rungs, but ducked instinctively when a shot ricocheted off the wall beside her. Layela, crouched, felt her blood turn cold. The Kilita’s gun was trained on them. His orange eyes were slit and threatening, the pupils clenched like a snake’s.

“Why?” he hissed as he advanced. His ungloved hands and shirt were covered in green blood. Layela was surprised that it was Josmere at whom he aimed his gun, and even more surprised that her friend didn’t seem to care.

I saved you, Josmere! You won’t die here, like this. You’re not meant to! No mists assailed her vision, and she wondered if they would leave her alone now — if she had somehow beaten