Sacrifice

by Sadie Moss

  Taking advantage of Callum’s distraction, Jacob lifts his sword higher and steps closer as if about to attack. I move without thinking, darting around the broad-shouldered messenger and putting myself in Jacob’s path again.

  “Stop it! Both of you! We’re on the same side!”

  That’s not true, strictly speaking. The men behind me serve an entirely different god than the one my people worship. But in this moment, we all have a common goal—or at least, we should.

  “Sage, what’s going on? Where have you been?” Jacob demands, a note of pleading in his tone. “And who is this man?”

  “This man and his friends just saved this town from certain destruction,” I say coolly, eyeing his sword until he lowers it a little. Then I raise my voice, sweeping my gaze over the other villagers who have gathered around us. “They’ve done you no harm. Yet everyone is acting as if they’re the enemy. They brought me home to help you all. To protect you. And to save my brother,” I add, looking in earnest at my mother.

  Though her eyes still carry a dark shadow of suspicion regarding the three strangers who stand like a wall behind me, my mother nods and gestures with one hand toward the house.

  I grab Callum’s arm with one hand and Echo’s with the other, meeting Paris’s gaze as I draw them after me. “Come on. I’ll take you to Nolan.”

  Please, don’t let it be too late.

  The villagers, Jacob included, watch us silently as we step toward the small hut. Suspicion and fear linger in their eyes, but none of them interfere or move to stop us as we step inside.

  My mother left the door slightly ajar when she left the house earlier, and as I pass the threshold, I’m immediately beset by the scent of home. It is a mixture of healing herbs and our homemade soap, but underneath the familiar smell, something more rancid makes my stomach roil.

  Rot and sickness.

  Nolan lies atop his blankets in the bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of breeches, his body covered in a sheen of sweat. I saw the jaundice in the enchanted mirror, but the bruise-like color of his skin is even worse in real life. He’s asleep, eyes moving underneath his purple, paper-thin eyelids, but his rest is fitful. I can tell by the way his fingers twitch and his head turns on his pillow.

  I peel back the torn edge of his pants to reveal the mangled part of his leg just beneath his kneecap. The entire lower half of his leg is tinged green, and I’m subjected to another wave of that sickly death rot.

  “She should have amputated it,” I murmur as I rip the fabric higher to expose his slender thigh. The green tinge circles above his knee in spikes, as if the infection is reaching for his soul.

  Echo touches my hair, then gently moves me out of the way. His voice is low when he speaks, meant only for me. “I think, given the state of affairs as we’ve seen it, perhaps she didn’t have any hope left.”

  I nod. He’s right, and I know it. I know it because my mother would never forget her duties as a healer, nor would she forgo a life-saving treatment if it would give the patient even a slight chance of survival. She knew from the moment Jacob and I carried Nolan’s sobbing body home that he wouldn’t survive this.

  Hope no longer exists in my village.

  I stand back from the bed as Callum, Echo, and Paris kneel around my brother and begin working. It wasn’t so long ago they did the same for me, sewing up the puncture wounds from the afterworld beast as if they were mending torn curtains.

  This seems much more difficult, however, even for beings as powerful as these three. They use the weave to reach inside Nolan’s leg, scraping out the infection one delicate movement at a time. Sweat beads on their foreheads and they remain silent as stone, moving like a single entity with such concentration it’s a sight to behold.

  They’re still working on the infection when my mother steps closer, finally abandoning her post by the door. I go on alert, ready to shove her out of the room by force if necessary—anything to keep her from ruining Nolan’s chances of survival.

  But she didn’t step forward to stop the men. She watches with wide eyes, looping her arm through mine and holding on tightly as the messengers work.

  After what feels like more than an hour, Nolan’s leg is no longer green. The yellowish tint to his skin is beginning to ease, leaving him pale but less sickly looking. My mother’s fingers grip my forearm so tightly I’m losing sensation in my hand, but I don’t try to disengage her hold or move her in any way. I feel as if she’s a startled deer, and the least amount of movement might send her racing away in terror.

  I’m too incredibly thankful to have her standing beside me again to let her run away now.

  The men move to the exterior of Nolan’s leg next. Callum pulls a small dagger from a sheath at his side and hands it to Echo. I realize with a small start of surprise that it’s the one I borrowed from under his bed. I thought it was abandoned in the Unclaimed Expanse, but I recognize the detail work on the handle. One of the other men must’ve retrieved it after Callum scooped me up to carry me back home.

  When he brings the razor sharp point of the dagger toward Nolan’s leg, my mother makes a strangled noise in her throat and jerks forward, but I hold her back and give a small shake of my head.

  “Trust them,” I whisper. “And if you don’t, then trust me.”

  Mother swallows hard, her nostrils flaring. Her gaze flicks from me to the men and back again, and she stares at me as if I’m the strangest thing in the room. But she nods, allowing them to continue their work—even though her body remains as tightly wound as the bear trap that caused this mess in the first place.

  Echo uses the dagger to open all of my mother’s sutures. They release, and with each thread that snaps, yellow pus seeps from the raw, healing wounds. Six sets of fingers work on removing the dark stitches, and then they begin to move strands of the weave over the swollen, crusty edges.

  This part of the process takes even longer, but since the hardest part—removing the infection that was killing him—is over, I already breathe easier.

  More long minutes pass, and my mother and I remain silent and immoveable, letting the men work. When they finally stand and back away from Nolan’s bed, my brother almost looks himself again.

  Color has risen in his pale cheeks, and his breathing is deeper and less labored. As we all stare at him, he rolls over and tucks his hands beneath his pillow before sinking into deeper sleep.

  My mother falls to her knees at his bedside, her mouth open beneath her palm. She reaches out, hand shaking, and traces her fingers over Nolan’s leg. The skin is entirely unblemished, still dirty with dried blood and who knows what else the men pulled from his body, but completely healed.

  Tears pool in her eyes as she turns to look up at the three messengers, who have returned to my side. She gets to her feet unsteadily, then crosses to us and holds out her hands to Callum.

  I see the indecision in his eyes, though I’m certain my mother does not. After a moment, he accepts her hands.

  “Thank you,” she says, a sob following the words. She smiles at him, gratitude filling every line of her face. Then she moves to Echo, performing the same ritual before repeating it a third time with Paris. She stands back, beaming at all three of my messengers as she openly cries. “I am grateful to you beyond words. All three of you. You brought my Sage home, and you saved my son’s life. I’ll never be able to repay your kindness.”

  Echo returns her smile, but all three remain mute. For the first time since I’ve met them, the men actually look exhausted, and I wonder how much energy they just expended as they painstakingly used the weave to save my brother’s life.

  Dirt and streaks of blood stain their clothes, and they each look so… human in this moment that my heart squeezes. Instead of making me less drawn to them, the sight of them like this only increases the pull I feel toward them.

  As if, with their barriers down, I actually have a chance of getting in.

  “Our village is poor,” my mother goes on, speaking into the silence.
“We don’t have much to offer you in exchange, but we do have an empty hut on the other side of the village. You can stay there for as long as you wish to remain with us.”

  I half-expect the men to reject her offer, maybe to laugh at it outright. They live in a lavish, well-appointed house in the afterworld—what need do they have of an abandoned hut in a village that can barely sustain itself? We did what we came here to do, and I wonder if they’ll drag me away now, not even giving me a chance to say goodbye.

  But I don’t want to go yet. I need to soak up more of my mother’s presence and see Nolan open his eyes. I need to know he’s all right.

  Besides, we’re all exhausted and haggard. We need rest.

  Finally, Paris steps forward, and my stomach tightens with nerves. But when he speaks, his voice is smooth and warm.

  “Thank you. We would be honored.”

  26

  All three men remain quiet as I show them across the village to the empty hut.

  The Dalton family lived here once—a mother, a father, and their two children. The youngest child passed two summers ago, and Mrs. Dalton was never the same after that. When the seven-year-old contracted a fever last winter and never recovered, she spiraled even deeper into whatever painful world she’d found inside herself. Not long after, she took her own life, leaving Mr. Dalton alone.

  He was gone before the spring rains cleared for summer warmth.

  So many good people in my village have died. Just thinking of all whom we’ve lost causes a painful lump to rise in my throat. I wanted so desperately for my sacrifice to make a difference.

  Maybe it has, in a roundabout way. I don’t know why I ended up as a lost soul in another god’s afterworld, but because I did, I ended up connected irrevocably to Callum, Paris, and Echo. If it weren’t for my messengers, I would not be here now, and my brother would still be moments away from death—perhaps he would’ve slipped into the afterworld himself already.

  And the four of us are still here for the time being. I don’t know why Paris and the others agreed to stay, but I’m grateful beyond measure that they did. What if my men can help this land? Maybe we can use the weave to help provide for my village. I don’t know if that’s a possibility, or how we would do it without drawing attention to our magic, but I won’t let them drag me back to the afterlife without at least trying.

  My men.

  The words repeat inside my head, and I blink as I realize that somewhere along the line, that’s how I’ve begun to think of these three messengers. As mine.

  Are they? And am I theirs?

  My stomach does a little flip-flop, and I shove open the door to the Daltons’ hut and step inside, brushing away some cobwebs hanging from the door frame. It smells musty, as if the place hasn’t been aired in quite some time, so I go immediately to the three small windows and throw them open despite the chill outside.

  There are a few dusty logs by the fire, and I busy myself arranging them in the cold fireplace. Within a few moments, I have a serviceable fire crackling in the hearth to chase away the chill and the disused, saddened feeling in the air.

  Callum, Echo, and Paris have watched me during the process, silent but entirely focused on my movements. It’s odd, really, to have the riveted gazes of three different men upon me when all I’m doing is stoking a fire to keep us warm.

  I finally dust my hands off and face them, my heart swelling all over again with thankfulness for everything they’ve done for me today. Not only did they save my life, but they saved my village from the raiders and my brother from death.

  They might as well have handed me the world.

  And alongside the gratefulness, there’s another emotion twisting and turning inside me too. Affection, I think, or maybe even something deeper. I care about these men. The realization has been coming on for a while now, but it’s stunning in its ferocity.

  I know exactly what I want to do, and this time, I don’t stop myself from doing it. I’ve held myself back for so long, but just like in Callum’s bedroom earlier, I don’t let myself question or doubt.

  I just let the tug of my soul guide me.

  Taking a deep breath, I go to Echo first, stepping into his warmth until our bodies are nearly touching.

  His attentive expression breaks and he gives me the biggest, widest grin I’ve ever seen him wear. “I like you with a dagger, little soul. You’re fierce as a lioness.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Should I unholster it and give you more to like?”

  He laughs at that, then reaches up to cup my face in one hand. His fingers are rough and calloused against my skin, and that sensation sends delightful tingles up my spine. I follow the tingles and press my lips to his.

  Warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the fire gaining strength behind us. I yield to his kiss, my mouth opening as his tongue slips inside. One of his big hands fans out over my back, pulling me closer until we’re pressed fully together.

  I’m lost in Echo’s kiss when I feel another pair of hands slide up my arms. My hair is pushed away, revealing the line of my neck, and then a head of tousled blond hair tickles my face as Paris’s lips close on my skin. He peppers tiny kisses along the curve of my neck, then continues to trace along my jaw even as Echo continues to kiss me.

  But I want Paris’s mouth on mine. I want to taste those succulent, perfectly shaped lips that always seem to be smiling. So I break away from Echo, though I keep my hand on his face because I don’t want him to back away.

  I turn my head, my body still pressed against Echo, and meet Paris over my shoulder in a deep kiss. It’s so different from his brother’s, more playful, more reckless. His teeth tug at my lower lip, one hand moving between Echo’s body and mine to cradle my breast. When Echo leans in and trails his tongue along my collarbone, I moan into Paris’s kiss, which only makes him kiss me harder, that languid smile still on his lips even as his tongue is occupied.

  But I’m not fully complete. A piece of me is still missing.

  I pull away from Paris’s kiss, though his hands remain on my body and Echo’s mouth keeps moving over my neck.

  Callum. Big, gruff, and a frequent pain in my ass. He watches us from across the room, his face void of emotion. But he’s not as unaffected as he pretends. His arousal is as obvious as it is in the two men pressing against me.

  I leave the circle of Paris and Echo’s arms and cross to the massive warrior. He’s guarded, his gaze watching my every step as I take my time reaching him. I stop with inches between us, much too far away for my needs—but I’m not sure what to expect with this man who’s so hot and cold. Reaching out tentatively, I smooth my hands over his soft cotton shirt, my fingertips bumping over his thick muscles. My hands move further, fingers dancing over his neck and up his jaw line.

  He stares down at me with hooded eyes the color of spring grass, but makes no move to touch me. There’s an intensity in his gaze, as if he’s holding back, keeping himself locked tightly under control, and the tension in his body nearly hums.

  I don’t want him to hold back. The silken strands of his dark hair slide around my hand like a waterfall, and I fist a handful, yanking him down to meet me.

  Passion flares in his eyes, a need that mirrors my own. I see it in the moment before our lips meet.

  And then I feel it in the press of his firm mouth against mine.

  His kiss overwhelms me, overpowers me, burns me down like a forest fire ravaging a barren landscape.

  There is no restraint in his touch. No gentleness or subtlety. Our kiss is clashing teeth and warring tongues, hands in each other’s hair and bodies grinding against each other. I’m much smaller than him, but I give back as good as I get, hooking my legs around his waist and holding on tightly, using that leverage to take the kiss even deeper. My skirt bunches around my waist, exposing some of the skin of my legs, and when fingers brush over my flesh, I groan into Callum’s mouth.

  Echo and Paris have joined us, framing us and surrounding me completely
with hard male bodies.

  Vivid memories of my dream come flooding back, and even though I know it wasn’t real, that it was nothing more than a product of my own imagination, I can’t quite convince my body of that. To my burning, needy flesh, this feels familiar.

  This feels perfect.

  This feels right.

  Echo draws my hair over one shoulder, brushing his lips over the back of my neck in a way that makes me grind harder against the press of Callum’s thickening cock. Paris’s fingertips graze the side of my breast before tracing down the curve of my waist, and Callum’s large hands squeeze my ass as he devours me with his bruising kiss.

  Then, suddenly, he unwinds my legs from his waist and sets me down. I make a startled noise of protest as my skirt swishes around my legs, and Echo and Paris each make a similar sound.

  Callum takes a step away, holding out a hand as if to stop me from pursuing. His lips are red and swollen, his long brown hair slightly mussed from my fingers, and the need I saw in his face earlier is still there.

  But the control is back too.

  I’ve spent every day since my soul was bound to these men struggling against the feelings I’ve been developing for them.

  I don’t want to fight it anymore. I want them, and I don’t care how insane or unwise it is. I don’t care that I risk more pain than joy in handing over my heart to them.

  They’re more than my soulkeepers. They’re three good men I’m beginning to fall in love with.

  But I’m not the only one who’s been fighting—and of course Callum is a better warrior than I am.

  Whatever has been holding him back from me, making him run hot and cold, it still lives inside him. And as long as it does, he’ll never be mine.

  My heart cracks a little in my chest, and I turn to look at the other two messengers. They’ve stepped away too, all three of them surrounding me but too far away for me to reach.