Chapter 143: Red red Red 1

BONNIE

The explosion rattled the windowpanes behind me. It wasn’t thunder. It was sharper, closer, the kind of sound that made my entire body react before my mind could catch up. I flinched, my shoulder knocking against the dresser hard enough to make the wood groan.

Lysander moved before the echo had even died. He crossed the room in three long strides and threw the door open, his body blocking most of the frame as he looked into the corridor.

His entire body went rigid.

Then his hand shot up, covering his nose and mouth.

I smelled it too.

Copper and salt filled the air, thick and unmistakable. Blood.

Fresh blood.

Not the old stains that had soaked into the walls and floors of this place. This was new, wet and recent.

And there was something about the smell that made the back of my neck prickle.

"Not again," he muttered into his palm. His shoulders rose and fell with a breath that sounded more like a growl. "Stay here."

He didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped over the threshold, his boots heavy against the stone.

I opened my mouth to argue, but he stopped.

His hand dropped from his face as he turned back. His eyes moved around the room, taking in everything before finally settling on me. Then they flicked toward Fia, who was still standing near the window.

"You know what," he said, his jaw tightening. "Maybe you guys should come with me."

I blinked. "What?"

"Who knows what crazy thing is happening now?" He dragged a hand through his hair, leaving the dark strands disheveled. "I’m so sick of this shit. Can we have one day of peace? Just one?"

His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

He looked away, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. He was trying to hold himself together, but I could see how much all of this was wearing him down. The constant crises. The blood. The throne he was trying to hold together while everything around him kept falling apart.

I crossed the space between us. My bare feet made no sound against the cold floor, but he noticed me when I stopped in front of him.

I reached out and touched his arm. The muscle beneath my fingers was tense.

"It will be alright," I told him.

He looked at me for a long moment.

Something in his expression softened. The panic didn’t disappear completely, but it settled enough for him to breathe through it. His shoulders straightened. His jaw loosened.

The regent returned.

"You’re right," he said.

His hand covered mine where it rested on his arm.

"Of course you’re right."

Fia pushed off from the wall where she’d been leaning. She crossed to us with that fluid grace she had, the one that made her look like she was always dancing even when she was just walking. She clapped Lysander on the shoulder, harder than necessary.

"You have two strong healers with you," she reminded him. Her mouth quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "We’ll be fine."

He exhaled through his nose. "I suppose—"

Footsteps pounded down the corridor outside, heavy and irregular. Lysander shoved me behind him before I could react, his body coiling into a fighting stance. I heard his claws extend, the soft snick of bone and nail shifting. He would have attacked. I saw it in the tension humming through his back, the way his weight shifted onto the balls of his feet, ready to lunge.

At the last second, he stopped.

The figure that skidded to a halt in the doorway wore the gray uniform of the sentinels, the silver pin of the northern guard catching the light. Young, maybe twenty, with dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping.

Lysander didn’t relax. His claws stayed out. "Report."

The sentinel straightened, swallowing hard. "High Beta Bradley sent me, Your Majesty. He asked me to come protect the healer." His eyes found me over Lysander’s shoulder. "To protect Bonnie. I do not think he knew you were here."

Lysander turned his head slowly. His gaze met mine, and I saw the question there. Why? Why would Bradley send a guard specifically for me when it sounded like there was absolute chaos in the halls?

He looked back at the sentinel. "Why?"

The boy opened his mouth to answer, but the words tumbled out in a rush, tripping over each other. "Someone was killed in another of the private wards, Your Majesty. The delicate. And the killer—" He stopped to drag in another breath. "The killer is the invited witch, Willow. She’s—"

Willow?

The name didn’t register at first. It was just a sound, a distant ringing. Then the vision hit me.

What looked like invsible hands around Willow’s throat. The gift of small miracles wrapping around her like a noose, lifting her, and squeezing. The rage that wasn’t quite mine but lived in my bones anyway. I’d seen it. I’d felt it. And now here it was, happening in real time, bleeding from dream into waking.

Was this it? Was this why I’d seen that?

I gasped. The air felt too thin. My vision tunneled, and I grabbed Lysander’s arm hard enough to bruise.

"I have to be there," I blurted out.

Lysander twisted to face me fully. "What?"

"Bonnie, you’re white as a sheet," Fia observed, stepping closer. Her hand touched my back, warm and steady.

I shook my head, trying to clear the afterimages of the vision from my eyes. "You don’t get it. I think I had a vision about this."

The words hung in the air. Lysander’s expression shuttered, going careful and closed off in that way he did when he was trying to think three moves ahead.

"Wait," Fia interjected. She moved around to face me, her brows drawing together. "Your vision was about this? Specifically this?"

"Yes... I think so." I licked my lips. They felt dry and cracked. "I saw myself using... using the gift of small miracles on her. On Willow. I was killing her. What if she’s doing something horrible right now and I’m supposed to be there to stop it? What if that’s why I saw it?"

"Bonnie." Lysander’s voice went low and dangerous. "No."

"Listen to me—"

"I cannot do that." He grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging in. His eyes searched mine, frantic. "What if it endangers you instead? What if you lose control again? I can’t—I won’t—"

He stopped. His throat worked.

I reached up and took his wrists in my hands. His pulse hammered against my palms, rabbit-fast and terrified. Not for himself. For me. It was always for me... Wasn’t it?