The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(27)
One heartbeat. Two. And the fear crashed into her again as she got a good look at the man in front of her.
Normand, a guard in the Gaillards’ service whose wife was the magistrate of the quarter, stood before her, his fingers worrying with the edges of his uniform jacket. He was the same height as Papa, though wider in the middle, and his red-brown hair had long since gone mostly gray. She’d known him since she was a toddler sitting on the storeroom floor poking her fingers into her mother’s potions. Usually, she’d greet him and let him tell her how big she was getting, how maybe he had a nephew who was looking for a girl with a steady head on her shoulders, how her mother had been the smartest person he’d ever known.
But she had no time for pleasantries tonight. Not until she found Papa.
“Excuse me, Normand,” she said breathlessly. “I have to go. Papa didn’t show up to take me home, and I’m worried.”
“Wait a moment, Blue.” His hands reached out to steady her, but his voice was all wrong.
It shook. Broke when he said her name. And there was an awful gentleness to it, as if he pitied her.
She backed up.
“Let’s go to the shop,” he said, his voice still gentle. His hands set carefully on her shoulders like she was made of glass.
She shook her head, her breath coming in quick, hard pants. “I have to go. Papa needs me.”
His hands settled on her shoulders. Gripped. “I’m sorry, Blue.”
“Sorry about what?” Her voice shook too, the fear that had pushed her out of the shop becoming a jagged knife that sliced into every thought.
“Your papa is . . . Carlson, the farrier two streets over, was out late shoeing horses. He found him. Found your papa, I mean.”
“Where is he?” Her words came out loud and high.
“I’m sorry,” Normand repeated. “I went to the farmhouse first, but you weren’t there, so I thought I’d try the shop next.”
“Normand, where is Papa?” She couldn’t feel her lips. Couldn’t understand how the words made it across her tongue when everything inside her felt paralyzed.
“He’s dead, Blue. I saw it for myself. I’m sorry.”
She wrenched herself out of his grip. “He’s not.”
“I checked and double-checked. I wish I had different news.” Normand stood there, shoulders bent, hands hanging in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them. Didn’t know how to help her.
There was no help for her. Not if his words were true.
“Where is he?” She whispered the words as the terrifying idea that he was telling the truth took root and burrowed toward her bones.
“I’ve sent for someone to collect him—”
“Where?” She clutched the halberd so hard, her fingers ached.
Normand was silent for a long moment, and then he said quietly, “The side of the road, just beyond the merchant district. Looks like someone surprised him from behind and stabbed him in the neck.”
She stood in front of him for a long moment, her heart thunder in her ears, and then the halberd clattered onto the cobblestones as she dropped it and ran.
Papa was right where Normand had said he’d be. His summer cloak had been arranged over his body. Normand’s doing, she was sure.
She dropped to her knees and reached a shaking hand toward the cloak that hid his face.
Maybe it wasn’t him.
It was so dark outside. Normand could be mistaken.
If she didn’t move the cloak, if she didn’t look, it could be someone else. She could get up and walk the rest of the way to the farmhouse, and Papa would be inside. Her dinner would be on a covered plate kept warm in the stove. Pepperell would complain that she’d been gone so long. And Papa . . . Papa would be asleep in his chair, his book fallen against his chest.
She held that image in her mind, let it glow with hope, as her hand slowly met the coarse linen of the cloak and pulled it back.
The image disintegrated, and a low sound of raw agony tore its way through Blue.
It was Papa.
His beloved eyes were closed. His neck torn open on one side. The heavy, metallic smell of blood filled the air.
It was Papa.
Her body shuddered and the dark corner of her heart where she kept her memories of Mama and the root cellar opened wide and swallowed her.
She curled herself over the top of him, clutching at his cloak, while the air left her body. She couldn’t cry. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe.
It was Papa.
And she was utterly lost.
ELEVEN
IT HAD BEEN four days since someone had killed Papa. Blue had moved through the hours, a stranger in her own skin. She’d eaten when Grand-mère put something in front of her, though the food tasted like dust. She’d slept when Grand-mère gently pushed her toward her room. She’d said things when it was expected of her, nodded her acceptance of the funeral arrangements, and vaguely registered the presence of a steady stream of townsfolk coming by with food and iron chimes and kind words. Twice the warning bells along the road to the wraith’s prison rang, their discordant melody scraping against Blue’s nerves until she wanted to scream.
How could she worry about a distant, caged monster when a monster on the streets of her city had already taken what was most precious to her?