He raised them, shakily.
I needed Jacob. He was clean and unsullied, and this second guard was young. I ran to the guard, past Charity, only sparing her one agonized glance. I tuned out her cries. I’d heard a million cries on the battlefield, held the hands of a thousand mortally wounded friends.
Jacob still held his hands high.
Not today, Hades, Mars, and Satan. Not my friends. Not my lovers.
Triage was my key. Fix the urgent things, first.
I must do this in order.
Yet, Cassius was unconscious and going to die within the next few minutes. The bubbles of blood said his wounds were bleeding into the respiratory tract. An emergency call might save Charity, but not my brother. I’d never thought to have a brother again, after two thousand years. I wiped my eyes with my spare hand.
I tied the living guard with a zip tie from the table. They’d left a whole bag of them for me. Nice of them. Watching Jacob, I dragged the guard closer to the table, leaving a swathe of blood. Would he live long enough? He must.
I threw a mental prayer to my long-lost gods—the good ones.
“What are you doing?” Jacob shrieked. He’d finally regained his voice.
I stalked to him and shot him in the arm. Triage.
I pointed at the floor, and he groveled there, begging. One memory of how Estelle looked with her heart excised expunged all my sympathy for this asshole. I shot his other arm, careful not to hit anything dangerously close to major vessels. While he cried, I dragged him to the table.
It took a few seconds to snap Estelle’s bonds then lift her down.
I worked fast, unmoved by the blood, violence, and death. But I placed her gently, two paces to the side.
I smashed Jacob in the face, once, then lifted him onto the table and tied his arms then his legs to the corners. I gagged him to lessen his interference.
I eyed the distribution. The other bodies were okay where they lay. It was him I needed, and the other man. The ritual itself, I could say it as fast as possible, if every syllable was enunciated. Every step around the room, every gesture must be correct, every tone in my voice, every need must be ripe and ready for execution. I’d done this a hundred times, give or take a few.
Practice makes perfect.I sniffed and ignored the sweat running down my face.
Triage. I should ignore everything else, get the greater good done faster.
But a cry and movement from Charity called me, made me hesitate.
She might not make it. None of this was certain. I ran to her and bowed my head, lifted hers off the floor a bare inch, cradling her. “I’m here. I’m sorry, little one, I’m sorry.”
She couldn’t talk by then, her breaths shallow and fast—her chest wasn’t expanding. The dagger protruding from her was an accusation, but I couldn’t pull it out. Extraction might cause catastrophic bleeding and damage that would hasten her death. That must only be only done when I was seconds from completion of the rite.
I thought I felt her nod, felt the stir of her fingers at my side, then she closed her eyes. I kissed her forehead. “I’ll be back. Hold on. Don’t die, girl.” Tears blurred my vision, and I whispered a last plea, “Don’t die, else I’ll spank your ass red.”
I lowered her head.
Her gaze followed me as I rose.
Even if everything succeeded, I was dooming them to be as I was, and it wasn’t all wine, roses, and song.
I am ready.I strode purposefully toward the first sacrifice.
Triage. Do it in order.Then I realized that the dagger I’d been using for centuries was inside Charity.
If I pulled it from her, she would scream and die in my arms. Arms rigid and hands propped on the table, I thought this through.
It wasn’t the instrument, it was the ritual, it was hitting the vocal marks, the steps and turns, and the need must be utmost in my mind. I just needed something sharp and capable of dealing with bone.
I could do this without it. “I can fucking do this,” I said out loud, aware my hands were in pain from my grip on the edge of the table. I turned, sprinted for the door.