Page 6 of Bone Year

Maybe that’s why I started working in the clinic with my father before I even understood what healing meant. As soon as I was old enough to carry a bowl of water or cut strips of linen, I was in the thick of it. Some villagers used to say healing was in my blood. I used to believe it too.

Working in the clinic was my way of trying to understand the thing that kept me awake at night. I told myself that if I feared something, the only way to conquer it was to study it, learning its patterns and its rules. If I could learn how to prevent death, how to anticipate it, how to accept it, maybe the fear would loosen its grip on me.

Maybe if I stood close enough to death, it would stop looking back at me.

I thought knowledge would ease the fear. Instead, all it did was sharpen the edge of the thing I dread most.

Even thinking about it now takes my breath away, the fear coursing through me at the thought of nothing. Time is the only enemy that can’t be conquered. We live this life, and then that’s it. Forever. For as long as the mind can stretch.

My breaths turn shallow as that familiar panic rises. It’s not fair that I was born human. We are not only the weakest race, but our lifespans are cruelly short. I would have given anything to be an angel, fae, or even a shifter. They live far beyond what any human can hope for.

I shake off the thought and reach for the nearest ledger and flip to the page I marked the last time I was here. I have only worked my way through about half of my father’s things, and I know it will take time before I finish. A part of me doesn’t want to. I draw out the process on purpose, clinging to the illusion that as long as there are pages left unread, he isn’t truly gone.

I skim patient names, treatments, and observations. I flip past them until the handwriting tightens, the margins crowded with notes written too fast to be tidy.

One cramped note in the corner catches my eye. “Injuries that do not match known beasts. Wounds that resist healing, as if the body itself is being told to fail.”

I chew on my bottom lip as I turn the page. The ink grows darker, pressed hard into the paper.

“The injuries are patterned. Not random. This is not a normal attack. It feels like preparation.”

I flip another page.

“If the cycle is delayed, then something else will respond. It always does.”

My gaze catches on a single word, underlined twice, and my breath stutters.

Ashwell.

“If the cycle is late, Ashwell will act.”

The final lines are shorter, the ink smudged.

“I pray it is not in my lifetime, or hers.”

How did my father know about Ashwell Academy? He never spoke of it, not even when I told him about Jace applying. And yet, buried in his notes, the name appears.

I read into the early hours of the night, turning brittle pages until my eyes burn. I don’t find anything else about Ashwell or what happened in the woods today.

I stretch my arms over my head and yawn, my body aching from the long day. My thoughts drift to Jace. I hope he made it back home safely. I debate going to check on him when a faint blue glow flickers in the middle of the room.

I shove my chair back and stand. Goosebumps ripple along my arms as I step around the desk toward the light, my pulse thudding in my ears. The orb hovers at eye level, no bigger than a coin at first, then it grows.

The light flares.

I throw my hands up to shield my eyes as brightness floods the room. When it vanishes suddenly, I lower my arms, blinking rapidly.

A tall man stands where the light had been.

I gasp and stumble backward until the backs of my legs hit the desk. He’s tall and broad, wearing a black cloak.

“Holy fuck. What are you?” I ask. This person is not human.

“Maelis Rose,” he says.

He knows my name. How does he know my name?

I nod numbly as he reaches up and pulls back his hood, revealing pointed ears and gray hair framing a slender face.