Page 118 of Harbinger

I can’t face anyone else tonight.

But she rises, ignoring my protest, and throws the dirty clothes in the basin. “I’ll bring you something to drink. All that smoke … Your throat must be raw.”

I manage a nod, and she leaves me with my thoughts. I drift to the window without realizing I’ve moved, my reflection a pale ghost in the glass. The burns smarting my skin are the only proof that I’m not dead.

Moonlight washes over the garden, and in the branches of the nearest willow, a dark shape perches, barely visible against the night. I press a hand to the glass like I can summon it. The oscen cranes its head and stares toward the house. But it doesn’t fly away; it begins to sing.

The song is low and strange—unlike any birdsong I’ve heard before. The thin, aching melody rises and falls and finally settles deep in my bones.

I rest my forehead against the glass as the door opens again behind me.

“Have you come to tell me this isn’t my fault, too, Hadrian?” I ask without turning.

But it isn’t Hadrian who answers.

“No, I haven’t. Because we both know that’s not true.”

I whip toward the familiar voice, and the world tilts under me.

His shirt is clean, but his pants are burned and bloodstained. He’s holding a jar of salve in one hand and a book in the other.

Bishop.

Standing in the doorway.

Talking to me.

Alive.

TWENTY-TWO

The world is still in pieces, but Bishop leans against the doorframe and forces a half smile that doesn’t quite reach his haunted eyes. “You didn’t scream. Taliesin will be disappointed.”

I stare, my skin tightening like I’m wearing it wrong.

Dead. He can’t be standing here. He died in my arms.

My thoughts skid, trying to find the trick—the proof that I’m hallucinating. But the fire is still crackling in the hearth, my muddy boots and his bloodstained tunic in front of it.

This isn’t real. He isn’t real.

“Say something,” the ghost murmurs, as if I’m some wild beast that must be approached with caution. “You’re starting to worry me.”

A laugh chokes out of me. Thin, broken, wrong. It scrapes from my throat like something dragged up from the bottom of a well run dry.

He steps into the room, his eyes narrowing with concern, and drops the jar and book onto the bed. They land with a soft thump, the quilt rippling from the impact of their weight. Like they’re real. But he can’t …

No.

I’m asleep. I turn and plant my hand on the windowpane to steady myself, but the cool glass sends a shiver racing through my body that doesn’t wake me up. Not a dream. He can’t be …

None of this makes sense.

“You’re dead.” I need to say it. Even if it feels undeniable and dubious at the same time.

For a heartbeat, the words hang between us.

Then the-thing-that-can’t-be-Bishop-but-is-doing-a-fucking-unnerving-impression-of-him lifts his head and meets my eyes. “I was.”