Malice, Heather Walter [hardest books to read txt] 📗

What if I could help him? Heal instead of harm?

It isn’t possible, my mind hisses. You’re Vila. Your power is bred from pain and despair. Evil—exactly like Endlewild always claimed.

But Kal said a Vila’s power is ten times that of an Etherian’s. He didn’t seem to think they were the wicked creatures I’ve been raised to believe. My power hinges on intent. What if I could use that intent differently? I could banish my reputation as the Dark Grace tonight.

I set my kit down.

Placing my hands on the duke’s husk of a body, I try to look like I know what I’m doing. No one says anything, but there’s a shift in the room as the duchess and the doctor share a glance. I shove away the prickly feeling of their unsettled energy, then relax the tension in my shoulders and breathe.

“This isn’t your usual method.” Dr. Renault disrupts my concentration.

I open one eye. “Have you been taking notes?”

She scowls, but doesn’t answer.

I refocus on the fading heartbeat beneath my palms. On the magic that must be flickering somewhere between the duke’s failing organs and bird-frail bones. I send my own magic out carefully, curious tendrils poking and prodding as it seeks what I want.

The gentle crackle of the fire seems to dull. My magic darts between the duke’s ribs and burrows into his throat. He moans and stirs, enough so that the duchess steps forward, distraught, but the doctor holds her back.

I’ve almost given up when I find it. Where the storm’s magic was violent and throbbing, the duke’s is thin and shivering, so faint I’m surprised I feel it at all. Do all mortals possess such small scraps of magic? It’s soft as a ball of spider’s silk. The scents of juniper buds and sun-warmed stones—scents that must be linked to the duke’s magic—tiptoe alongside those of the wet earth and charred steel of my own power.

I take in a breath and exhale. Test and nudge with my newfound limb, trying to bend the human magic to my desires. Life, health, healing. The windowpanes creak in the night wind. The duke’s body grows warmer under my fingertips. Hope flares behind my sternum. I press harder on his magic.

And then the duke coughs.

Something hot and sticky spatters across my face, stinking of copper. My eyes fly open, magic reeling back into my body like a snapped string. The duke’s face is purple. His eyes bulge. Deep, glistening crimson soaks the coverlet. He lets out a horrible croaking sound, his whole body seizing. And then he falls back against the pillows, his gaze glassy and vacant.

A terrified scream rips the room in half.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The doctor wastes no time. The duchess is wailing, her frenzied cries punctuated by hollow, painful-sounding gulps of air. Two maids ricochet from corner to corner, rushing between their mistress and the round woman, who has collapsed on the rug in a boneless heap. Renault grabs me by my upper arm hard enough to bruise it, shoves my kit into my hands, and bullies me out the servants’ entrance.

“Your housemistress will hear about this,” she promises.

And then the heavy door slams in my face.

Alone in the dim corridor, I can only stare at the blank oaken panels, the thud of wood against wood still resonating as the events of the last few minutes replay.

What had happened?

I’d found the duke’s magic, grasped it with my own and manipulated it the way I had with the storm and the stones in the tower. Had I pushed too hard? Did I use my magic too quickly after exhausting it?

It is because you are Vila, that hideous voice inside me growls. And an utter fool.

Guilt burns my throat like strong drink. There’d been so much blood. The duke’s eyes had almost burst out of their sockets. What had I done?

I keep my head down as I retrace my steps through the passages. I just want to leave as quickly as possible. Never come back.

Something solid crashes into me, toppling me off balance. My kit clatters to the dusty floor. Glass breaks. Perfect. Another reason for Mistress Lavender to be angry.

“Idiot.” Useless, bumbling servant. I hope he’s scared out of his wits when he sees who I am. “You’d best be prepared to pay for that.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

But that is not the squeak of a frightened boy. I straighten dizzyingly fast, nearly dropping the kit again.

Princess Aurora blinks at me from under her hooded cloak.

“I—you—what are you doing here?” I back away. “This is the servants’ passage.”

“I’m aware. I live here.”

“I know that,” I begin again, sharper than I intend. Then, remembering myself, “Your Highness.” I drop into a threadbare curtsy. “I’m just surprised.”

“Clearly.” She motions for me to rise, a smile in her voice. “What are you doing here? You’re not a servant. I thought—” Her breath hitches and she leans in. “What happened to you?”

At first, I think she’s talking about my dress. But she’s staring at my face. My fingertips go to my cheek and come away crimson. The duke’s blood. Dragon’s teeth. Shame scalds the ridges of my ears and I scrub the flecks of blood away, biting my tongue until I taste woodsmoke and loam.

“I’m summoned to the palace sometimes—”

I don’t want to go on. Don’t want to see the look in her eyes when she realizes what I am. But I also don’t see the point in lying. She’ll find out one way or another that I’m exactly what Briar deems me to be.

“To kill people.”

Aurora inhales sharply, surprise or horror or both rippling over her features like torchlight. But she doesn’t break my gaze. “I’ve heard that rumor.”

“It’s true.” My jaw sets, bracing for rejection. For her to summon her guards and have me escorted to the dungeons.

“I’m sorry. I don’t imagine it’s an errand you enjoy.”

I’m sure that I misheard her. She can’t possibly be taking my side. Again. But she doesn’t waver.