Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
Air gushes from my lungs as Ridoc looks down.
The cook’s knife is lodged in his side.
I wish you and Sawyer were with us, but I’m grateful to have Ridoc, even if his sarcasm is wearing on Mira’s last nerve.
—Recovered Correspondence of Cadet Violet Sorrengail to Cadet Rhiannon Matthias
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Ridoc!” Fear pours into me, colder than a snow squall in January, as I stumble forward.
No. No. No. The words form a chant of pure denial in my head.
“That’s…unfortunate,” Ridoc says quietly, staring down at the knife that protrudes from his side.
Not Ridoc. Not anyone, but especially not Ridoc.
This isn’t happening. Not again. Not when we’re thousands of miles from home and he hasn’t graduated, or fallen in love, or gotten to live. “You’re all right,” I whisper. “Just keep it there, and I’ll get Trager—”
Ridoc reaches for the knife’s hilt.
“No!” I lunge across him to grab his hand, but he’s already yanked the blade free. I slam my palms over his side to stanch the flow of blood…but there isn’t any. No hole in his shirt, either, just two slices through his flight jacket and a cut in the counter.
The blade caught the edge of his flight jacket…not him.
Ridoc flies at the cook, and my hands slip off his stomach.
“Asshole!” Ridoc shouts, and I pivot to see him plow his fist into the cook’s face. “I have four uniforms, but only one fucking flight jacket, and I”—punch—“hate”—punch—“sewing!” Ridoc yanks my dagger from the cook’s hand, and the man slides down the doorframe, his eyes fluttering shut. “For fuck’s sake, you’re supposed to be the civilized isle!” He wipes my blade on the cook’s tunic, then turns and walks back toward me. “What is the wisdom in a kitchen cook attacking two trained killers?” His face falls. “Vi, you all right?”
I gulp for air and nod. “Yeah. I just thought…but I’m fine. And you’re fine. And everything is…fine, except Garrick, so we should—”
Understanding softens his eyes, and he wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a quick but gentle hug. “Yeah, I love you, too.”
I nod and we break apart. “I know what they put in the cake.”
“Good.” Ridoc gestures at the door, and we both head back toward the dining room. “And I want a patch for this shit, Violet. A quest squad patch. Understand?”
“Loud and clear.” I make it into the dining room first and find two of the triumvirate retching while Xaden and Trager monitor Garrick as Talia sobs. Aaric waits on the edge of the table, dagger in hand, and Faris sits hunched over with his arms around his stomach.
“He’s breathing on his own, but it’s shallow,” Xaden says. “Tell me you have good news.”
“Almost.” I try to smile.
“Book.” Dain slides my father’s field guide across the table. Aaric catches it, then hands it over.
“He’ll be dead in ten minutes,” Faris mutters.
“No, he won’t.” I flip through the book to the chapter I need, then run my finger down the flora chart Dad drew until I reach zakia berries.
POISONOUS WHEN ALLOWED TO FERMENT. TREAT WITH FIG OR LIME TO THE BACK OF THE THROAT WITHIN ONE HOUR.
Thank you, Dad.
“I’ve got it,” I tell Xaden, then slam the book shut and look over at Dain. “Upstairs on the veranda by our room, there’s a silver tray. Get the figs.”
Dain nods, then takes off at a run.
I motion to Aaric, and he slides from the table. “I need five small cups filled with water. Fresh, not salt. One is for Dain.”
He heads into the kitchen, and Ridoc follows.
“Figure out how to get him to swallow,” I say to Xaden, then lean against the edge of the table, grimacing at the pain in my ribs as I lean down to Faris. “We’re fighting a war for the future of our world. This shouldn’t be a competition. Logic and wisdom dictate that you assist us so you don’t become us.”
“It is your war,” he growls as Dain sprints back in.
“Crush it, dice it, whatever you have to do to mix it with enough water to get it down his throat,” I tell Dain.
“On it.” He steps onto a chair, then walks across the table, jumping off once he clears Garrick’s head. Then he, too, disappears into the kitchen.
“It will be our war.” I lean down as Faris shudders. “You think they won’t come here once they’ve drained every last ounce of magic from our home?”
“We’re safe.” He glares up at me. “We have no magic here.”
“Foolish, foolish man.” I shake my head. “They’ll drain you.”
His eyes flare a second before he groans in pain.
Xaden and Trager have Garrick on his side when Dain returns with the fig slurry and a spoon. Aaric and Ridoc follow, each carrying two small cups of water.
I take them one by one and set them behind me, out of Faris’s reach, then dig my nails into the palm of my hand to keep from panicking as the guys work to get the solution down Garrick’s throat.