His face turns gaunt, and I know she’s sucking the life out of him.
“Stop it!” I yell, but my voice is so weak, it’s barely discernible over Ferelith’s triumphant cackle.
Bastien’s eyes slide my way. They’re dull, leaching of color, and with lips tinged blue, he says, “I love you.”
“Oh gods,” I sob, attempting to run toward him, but I stumble. “I love you, Bastien.”
He gasps, tries to suck in air, and as he blows it out, I hear the words very clearly: “Trust the shadows.”
That seems to jolt Ferelith, her head whipping my way. “Shadows? What shadows? What does that mean?”
I don’t know who Bastien’s message is originally from, but I trust him. If he says trust the shadows, then I must.
Knowing there’s nothing inside me to call upon because of Ferelith’s blood hold, I lunge not toward her or Bastien but to the spell book.
Still smeared with my red blood, I dive onto the floor, trying to ignore the shock of pain through my bruised ribs and left shoulder. I slap my right hand on the cover and beg for its power to fill me.
The blood on the cover darkens until it’s black as pitch. Ferelith screeches, and I look over my shoulder to see her release her hold on Bastien. He crumples to the ground like a rag doll and doesn’t move.
Ferelith comes at me, but I return my attention to the book. Open for me, I ask silently.
The lock springs, the book opens, and the pages flip wildly.
“Give that to me,” Ferelith screams, only feet away.
I don’t feel the shadow magic. I don’t even feel my regular magic. Unsure of what to do, I go on instinct and slam my palm down on the pages, crumpling a few in the process.
The blood on my hands and up my arms—my blood that Ferelith had spilled already—turns black and slithers downward. Past my elbows, over my forearms, along the backs of my hands, spiraling down my fingers, soaking into the pages of the book.
In the path of the blood’s withdrawal from my skin, I feel a healing warmth left behind. Cuts seal and bones mend, so by the time the last drop sinks into the parchment, I’m fully restored.
And then I feel it.
The darkness.
Inky and crying for violence, I don’t shy away from it. Instead, I trust in myself, in Bastien, and in what Amell taught me.
I welcome it.
I don’t read the pages that my palms are pressed on, but I know what they say. Not the specifics and it’s far too much to recite by memory, but I know it’s a spell that will cause immense damage once it’s cast. I also know that the book picked this spell for me, flipping pages and stopping at this precise place.
I don’t hesitate. I spin just as Ferelith is on me, her hands outstretched and magic crackling at her fingertips.
Thrusting forth the darkness coalesced inside me, I stream it toward her in a spray of sparkling black shards that cut into every inch of her body. Her skin peels away in strips, and one jagged piece catches her in the left eye.
She cries out in pain, clawing at her eye, trying to remove the glass as blood pours down her face.
I use her distraction to ask the book for more. Pages flip, land open on another spell, and I slap my palm to it.
Power floods me, and for a second, it’s overwhelming. I panic, wondering if I can contain it. Then I realize with utter clarity I should not contain it.
I have to end Ferelith once and for all.
Show me what to do, I ask the book.
It answers. Shows me in my mind in vivid detail what I should do.
The part of me that fully accepted the shadows is gleeful over the violence I must unleash. The original part of me—the part that makes me me—is disgusted.
And yet, I have no choice.
I rush toward Ferelith, now temporarily blinded and moaning in pain. Drawing my hand back, I launch it straight at her. Strength bolstered and amplified by the darkness, my fist hits her squarely in the chest, pulverizes her sternum, and my fingers wrap around her beating heart. It’s not warm the way a human heart should feel but rather so cold, it burns my skin.
Ferelith’s good eye rounds in horror, and she looks down to see my hand inside her body. I feel the thump of blood in the arteries—once, twice, three times—then I pull the organ free with a massive heave.
She drops like a stone and I stare at the heart in my hand. It starts to shrivel and dry up until it resembles a piece of dried leather. It disgusts me and I want to fling it away, but I know it must be destroyed. I will forth fire and the withered organ is consumed by a flame that doesn’t hurt me at all. The heart incinerates, turning to ash that blows off my palm as I conjure forth a focused breeze.