My Blood Buried Her Lies

I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I wanted to tell him that from the moment I took him in as my little brother, I'd never once regretted it.

But time had stopped giving me chances.

In the distance, Jacob held a wineglass, watching us with a smile. Every time Isabel's resolve wavered, he'd text her—harden your heart, punish them.

Maybe she sensed something was wrong with me. She told them to stop.

Elijah dragged his battered body over and pulled me up. "Julian. Julian!"

He shook me, panic rising. When he saw my eyes had fallen shut, his own turned red again.

"Isabel, help me!" He was screaming now. "He passed out—call an ambulance!"

She rolled her wheelchair over, glanced down at me, and scoffed. "Call who? He's faking it."

"I don't know what you see in him. He doesn't care whether you live or die—"

"He's not pretending." Elijah's voice cracked. "He's dying."

"If you won't call, I will."

He set me down gently and fumbled for his phone. Before he could dial, Henry kicked it out of his hand.

"You haven't even apologized to me yet, and you're already looking for an excuse to run? Keep dreaming."

Elijah broke.

All he wanted was for me to survive. So he knelt. He apologized. He kowtowed over and over until his forehead split open, blood streaming down his face.

Henry still wouldn't let us go.

Something in Elijah snapped. He lifted his head, eyes blazing red. "Isabel. If you stop me from saving him again, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. Forever."

Isabel froze. There was no acting in that stare—only raw, desperate truth.

She told Henry to stop.

Elijah hauled me onto his back and ran.

Isabel started to rise from her wheelchair, but Jacob caught her wrist and pulled her into his arms. "What's the rush? He'll be fine. Trust me."

His lips brushed her ear. "Why not focus on tonight instead? It's our last performance, after all. Haven't you thought about what you want?"

Then he kissed her, and whatever conscience she had left crumbled under his touch.

Elijah knelt outside the operating room, praying. His lips moved constantly—please let him be okay, please, please.

He didn't know my soul was standing right beside him.

He didn't know I was already beyond saving.

The surgical light went dark. Doctors filed out.

When they announced my death, Elijah collapsed. The sound that tore from his throat wasn't crying—it was something broken, something that would never heal.

I tried to comfort him. Don't cry. It's okay. Please don't cry.

He couldn't hear me.

When he'd exhausted every tear, he stood and lifted my body onto his back.

I remembered doing the same for him when we were children. After the village kids beat him bloody, I'd carried him home just like this. He'd smiled through split lips and said, When I grow up and you get old, I'll carry you around the world.

While my body burned to ash, Elijah called Isabel. Dozens of times.

She didn't answer once.

Finally, he gave up. He went home alone, cradling the urn that held what was left of me.

He opened the door.

Jacob had Isabel pinned to the couch, his mouth on hers.