The Blood is Love (Dark Eyes 2)

But the snarling and growling only intensifies and I feel flecks of liquid on my arms and I’m so scared to open my eyes but when I do, I see him a foot away and my hand are stretched out and it’s like he can’t come forward, like he’s stuck in place, biting the air, his saliva flying on me.

And that’s when I feel it, beneath the blood in my lungs and my exposed ribs and the endless pain: The power. I feel the power coming out from the palms of my hands, buzzing like warm static, moving forward like pulsing radio waves.

It’s my power.

It’s what’s keeping the beast back.

It might be what’s going to save my life.

I keep my palms raised, keep concentrating, trying to figure out what to do next. If my power holds up, whatever this power actually is, some kind of force field or invisible shield, maybe I can buy enough time to heal.

But when I look down at my chest, at the deep ragged grooves left behind by those knife-sharp, velociraptor-sized claws, at the white bone and torn muscle, I don’t see myself healing like it should. My skin feels dead, like it’s not even trying.

Oh my god. What if I don’t heal? I’m going to bleed out here.

“Help,” I try to scream, but I choke on the word and I’m coughing up blood freely, it’s running over my lips and onto the bed.

I roll over, trying to move while keeping one hand aimed at the beast, who is being held back like a snarling wolf, but I’m so weak, and every inch hurts, that I get as far as the floor before I collapse. I hold myself up against the side of the bed and try to call for help again.

I can’t.

I can’t form the words and I’m going to die here with the beast staring at me, waiting for the moment for me to let my guard down.

Help, I try again, closing my eyes, keeping my hands out, palms facing the monster. The power is flowing still but it’s weaker now, just as I’m weaker. I don’t have a lot of time.

Help, someone help me. Solon, if you can hear me, if you’re still in there, please help me. Wolf. Amethyst. Ezra. Mom. Dad! Please, someone help, help. My mother, my father. I need you, please, I need your help!

Exhausted tears are running down my face, every wet breath a struggle. My blood will drown me in the end.

Please, please, please. Someone hear me, someone help me.

Something light brushes against my hand.

My eyes fly open and I see a moth, the same moth I saw the other morning, resting on the tips of my fingers.

Are you here to help? I ask, wondering how delirious I really am that I’m asking a moth for help.

The moth turns its head toward me and stares at me and I stare at the moth and I wonder if maybe this is how I’m going to die, and then the moth flies off.

I turn my head to watch it go over to the window and OH MY GOD.

There is a fucking face at the fucking window.

Five stories up.

I can’t even scream.

I just stare at the white face and the dark eyes peering in at me and okay, now I know this is how I’m going to die, not from my chest being ripped open, not from a staring contest with a moth, but because of fright, because there’s a fucking ghost or a phantom or I don’t know what outside my fifth-story window.

Then the window opens, by itself.

And the person just floats into the room.

I stare at them, the exhaustion and loss of blood making me feel woozy, making me want to close my eyes, and yet I can’t keep my eyes away from the stranger who just flew inside my bedroom.

Also, I’m totally naked, as well as dying.

They land right in front of me and I notice the shoes are black boots, which seems so normal and human-like, and yet when I raise my head back to take the rest of them in, I can’t seem to decide what I’m looking at.

It’s certainly shaped like a human, like a man, wearing a long black cloak and black clothes underneath. But the face is bizarre. I can’t quite focus on it, like their features keep changing. The eyes are the only constant thing, deep-set black eyes, and the rest of the face—the nose, the chin, the mouth, the brows, the skin tone—those keep moving around, always adjusting, a constant blur.

I open my mouth to speak but only blood comes out.

Who are you? I manage to ask inside my head, hoping they can hear me.

“You don’t know?” they say, a very rich, male voice. Continental accent, like rich East Coast. “You called for me.”