Bring Me Their Hearts(84)

The blackness on the back of my eyelids becomes somehow deeper, free of light imprints or nerve strain. Is he teaching me how to weep?

“Place your hand over your unheart,” Reginall continues. “And you’ll find it there.”

I wait, my fingers still against my chest. Find what? There’s nothing under my skin—nothing but darkness. I’m incomplete, inhuman. There’s nothing but a girl made of mistakes and lies beneath my hand. The door opens, and Reginall startles, my eyes flinging open. Y’shennria walks in, a silver tray of livers in her hands. She wrinkles her nose and places them on my bedside table.

“Eat.”

GlAdly, the hunger screams. OfFer yoUr tHroaT so I caN finIsh whaT tHe oTheRs staRteD.

I wolf the livers down so fast I gag. Y’shennria turns her back, watching outside the window. Even Reginall, no doubt used to the sight, turns away, straightening a sandclock on the shelf. When the plate is clean, I expect to feel full, for the voices to stop. But the hunger still screams in my ears, deafening.

“H-Have you heard from Fione?” I struggle. “Did she get what she needed?”

Y’shennria nods. “She asked you to visit her at the royal shooting range. I told her only when you get better. If you get better at all.”

“I will,” I insist, unsettled by how unsure my voice sounds.

“Do not help Lady Fione more than necessary, Zera. No amount of help she can give us is worth exposing you.” Y’shennria won’t meet my eyes as she lingers in the doorway. “Rest, for now. Reginall, come. Leave her.”

Reginall goes to her, flashing me one last hesitant smile and bowing as he closes the door. My unheart sinks—does Y’shennria think me useless now? If I lose my Heartless abilities, will she find some replacement for me? Logic manages to claw its way through my fears; she doesn’t have the time to train a human girl to get the prince’s attention. She’s stuck with me, no matter how useless I become.

ShE caN’t abAnDon whaT sHe doeSn’t lOve, the hunger sneers.

Even with a plateful of livers in my stomach, the hunger isn’t satisfied in the slightest. It shrieks for more. I can’t sleep to ignore it, either, its nasty, violent thoughts piling up and up, like rancid garbage, like rusted needles poking under my skin. Maeve walks by my cracked-open door, dusting the hall’s paintings, and the hunger claws against my skull.

OLd, wEak, easY prEy, a wArMup foR tHe huNTing dAy—

The sight in the mirror across from me only makes it worse—my reflection pale and ragged, my teeth constantly long, no matter how hard I fight to hide them. How will I ever blend in at the court again—at the Hunt—if I can’t control myself?

How will Lucien ever forgive me if I take his heart?

He wOn’T—

I put my left hand over my right, desperately trying to imitate the warmth of his palm, the silken feel of his fingers against mine.

ImpOssiBle, the hunger snarls. You cAn’t haVe boTh his heArts, yoU paThEtic liTTle girl—

Fed up with wallowing in my own pain and mental filth, I grab my sword and get out of bed. The sun set long ago, and as I venture downstairs I spot the remnants of Y’shennria’s preparations for the Hunt—an open trunk of mine, filled with perfectly folded dresses. The fire-calendar mocks me relentlessly, its charred marks like black eyes watching me. Lucien’s eyes. What is this awful obsession with him all of a sudden? Just because he touched my hand? Why can’t I shake him from my mind?

I stumble, my legs giving way for a moment. I’m weak. I’m distracted.

YoU’ll nEver geT HiS hEarT liKe thiS—yOu’ll dIe liKe this—

The hunger’s voice is like a dozen harps being dragged over broken glass, jagged, the strings snapping as they go. Determined for a moment of peace, I venture outside and grab a whetstone, a bowl of water, and a rag. On the steps of the manor, in the full red and blue moonlight, I sharpen Father’s sword relentlessly—the repetitive movements just barely drowning the hunger. The hordes of black rosebushes sway in the midnight wind, thorns like fangs trying to pierce the sky.

HoW maNy more pEopLe do yOu haVE to maKe sUFfer beFore you’Re sAtiSfied?

I admire my work, Father’s sword so sharp I entertain the thought of trying to cut the moonlight itself.

It’S a cYcle Of hATE anD paIn and you’re jUSt anOtheR wheel keepiNg it going—

The hunger’s doubts and fears are a cacophony, never-ending. I clutch my head and double over.

“Lady Zera?” Reginall’s voice makes me turn, his bushy eyebrows drawn in concern. “Are you all right?”

“No,” I admit, half laughing. “Something’s wrong with me. I’m in pain. The hunger is so loud and distorted. And my wound—” I hold up my bloodstained bandage, fresh red overtaking the faded brassy blood. “It won’t godsdamn heal.”

Reginall tidies my whetting mess, putting the bowl and rag aside. He’s quiet for a long while, the hunger eating away at me with every second that passes. Finally, he clears his throat.

“Some wounds never do. Not even with magic.”

He looks up at the lit window of Y’shennria’s room on the second floor, and I watch the light with him.

“I’m afraid,” I say. “Afraid of failing her. Failing myself.”

“I see.”