“Bastard,” Thordin breathed, staring at the blood on his hands—Sif’s blood. I stood behind him, throat so tight that I couldn’t breathe. She was limp in front of him, sprawled like a discarded doll on the marshy turf, face pale as death and clothes splashed with the same scarlet that soaked her lover’s hands.
“You bastard.”
I couldn’t look away. I just stared at her chest, watching for the barest hint of a rise, a fall, that she was still alive.
Our enemy’s laughter sent shivers dancing up and down my spine, set the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. My jaw tightened, teeth grinding.
“Fucking bastard,” Thordin said, his voice shaking as he said the word for a third time. He surged to his feet and launched himself at the white-clad figure, fingers hooked into claws.
I stood there, rooted to the spot. I couldn’t help, but I couldn’t turn away no matter how much I wanted to.
The man in white just laughed—right up until Thordin grappled him and carried him to the ground.
He oofed and just started laughing again.
I sucked in a sharp breath with a shudder. Thom looked down at me, blinking slightly.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured.
My hand shook as I handed him my mug. “Will you pour me another cup of tea?”
I tried to ignore the strange, concerned looks I was getting as I squeezed my eyes shut. The after-image of the too-beautiful man in white was burned into the back of my eyelids and I shuddered again.
Thom’s fingers brushed my face and I shook my head hard.
“No,” I whispered. “Don’t ask me. Don’t ask me.”
“Is she all right?” Sif asked.
I just looked at her. “No. I’m not. I will be, though. I will be.”
These visions come for a reason—so I can stop them from coming to be. That’s what I’ve got to believe.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
