Forty-two – 01

[This post is from Matt’s point of view.]

Hecate’s hand went limp in his and Matt’s gaze jerked from the sky to her face.  His throat constricted, air choked off by sudden panic.  He realized a split second too late that something had gone terribly wrong.

“Shit,” he whispered, then again, more loudly, “shit.”

“What?”  Phelan tore his gaze from the mists—mists that were moving now, slowly rolling across the field despite driving rain and volleys of arrows.  His eyes widened as his gaze lit on Hecate’s face, her complexion suddenly the color of ashes.

“It was a trap,” Matt blurted, the words born of instinct as opposed to any sort of rational thought.  He wasn’t sure how he knew, nor did he precisely care how he knew—he just did.  “It was a trap.”

“What’s going on?”  Marin seemed to suddenly realize that Hecate was there with them on the wall, her eyes widening a fraction.  “What is—”

“Nevermind,” Phelan said, cutting her off in mid-question.  “Matt, you need to pull her out of it.”

“Me?  I don’t—”

“Don’t tell me you can’t,” Phelan snapped, “because you are the only one who can.  You’re connected to her.  The rest of us aren’t.  Do it.  You have to or we’re going to lose her to them and I think we both know that’s the last thing she’d ever want.”

It’s the last damned thing I want, too.  Matt swallowed bile, his grip tightening on her hand.  If I’m the only one who can save her, then I guess I’m the only one.  Damnation.  He exhaled a shuddering breath and drew Hecate into his arms, against his chest.  She felt like ice against him, her lips blue and flesh pale and bloodless.  A chill swept through him unbidden.

Please.  Please don’t leave me, mo chroí.  Please.

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