Henry turned to her so sharply she flinched. “Go!” he yelled, his voice as booming as the beast’s bass growls. Both his and the witch’s teeth were gnashing. “Leave me alone, Aglaé. You’ve done enough, and you have no power here anymore.”

With a hiss, the witch—who it seemed was nothing but a powerless woman now—was gone, running through the trees until Eustace could hear her no longer. Henry didn’t watch her leave, since his eyes scanned Elizabeth’s face desperately. Tears still managed to fall, even though his sobs had subsided, and Doc approached then, kneeling before them. Eustace crawled to them too, despite his weak and hurting knees, and Henry met his eyes. Eustace gave a nod, trying to show his sympathy, his understanding. His apology.

“I…” Doc started. “Let me see what I can do.” The look in his eyes said he had no hope, that he was just doing it for Henry. Perhaps as a way to make amends for the mess the whole town had caused.

Whether Henry thought it hopeless or not, Eustace didn’t know, for he laid Elizabeth gently on the ground at Doc’s knees. He brushed the hair away from her face tenderly, where it stuck to the blood on her left cheek. It wasn’t right seeing her this way, a shell of what she used to be, and in seeing her up close for the first time, Eustace brought a fist to his mouth, a sob swelling in his throat. But he hid it, as painful as it was, since it would be a mistake to let it go in front of Henry.

Doc felt her over, examined the wound, and then checked her pulse. It looked as though he contemplated chest compressions, but then stopped, lowering his shoulders. “Mr. Clayton, I…I’m sorry. I just think it’s too late.”

Henry shook his head; there was nothing he could say. No one could argue with death.

Chapter 27

An excruciating, debilitating pain weighed Henry down. Elizabeth’s absence was everywhere, suffocating him. Her pale face and her body, smeared in blood, swam in his vision, and he refused to believe it, refused to believe she was gone. She couldn’t be, since she was the only reason he was living.

He found himself gently shaking her shoulders again, kissing her on the cold mouth, willing her lips to return the kiss. He couldn’t breathe, the night sky and trees and everything in existence falling down on him, all at once. Arne pulled him away from her when Henry began giving her chest compressions, since Doctor Ortiz hadn’t. “I have to,” he argued with Arne. Henry shoved him away, too easily, and didn’t look to make sure he’d landed safely, for he was back at Elizabeth’s side, giving her mouth to mouth then pumping her chest again.

“Henry!” Arne snapped. “She’s gone!”

Henry shoved him away a second time. Again, he gave her chest compressions. Her blood painted his hands up to his wrists, coagulating in his arm hair. It was an awful sight, her blood.

Her blood.

Their blood.

He rocked back, his mouth falling open. The realization took his breath. He’d never thought it a possibility, since he’d always assumed only he could break his curse, but he hadn’t broken it. He had a Curse Breaker. He and Elizabeth, bound together by love, were now bound together as Cursed and Curse Breaker. According to the stories, they were physically, chemically one—two lives dependent on each other. The story of Absolon and Elvire wasn’t one Henry had made himself familiar with, but he knew enough: the woman who brought bread to an abomination, then saw him for the man he was. Elizabeth was Henry’s Elvire, her coffee as Elvire’s bread.

“I know what to do,” he rushed, searching his body for any open wounds. But for the first time he realized he had none, his body made whole in his permanent transformation.

His eyes fell on the pocket knife attached to the doctor’s belt. “Doc, your knife,” he demanded.

Doctor Ortiz hesitated. “Mr. Clayton, I…”

With impatience, Henry ripped it from the doctor’s belt, flipping it open with even more impatience. All in attendance gasped.

“Henry,” Arne reprimanded, taking hold of his arm.

“What will you do to her?” Doctor Ortiz asked in panic.

“Not to her, to me.” He met Arne’s eyes. “Our blood, Arne. We don’t have much time. If I hurry, then maybe I can—”

“Save her,” Arne finished, enlightenment lifting his brow. With a nod, he released Henry’s wrist.

Before Henry could mentally prepare himself for the pain, he sliced the knife deep into his palm. It stole his breath, made his hands tremble. But he could handle the pain. He’d experienced far worse, even just tonight. Henry ignored the unsettling noise of repulsion and disbelief from the crowd.

He positioned his hand over the open wound in Elizabeth’s chest and made a fist, squeezing. His blood drizzled into hers and ran down his wrist, even emerged from between his fingers. As he used his other hand to rub his blood into hers, mixing them desperately, the doctor groaned.

“Mr. Clayton, this can’t be good.”

Henry’s eyes shot to him. Through his teeth he said, “She’s already dead, Doc. If she’s dead anyway, what harm am I causing her?”

Doctor Ortiz lifted his hands, and Arne said, “It’s all right. He knows what he’s doing.”

Henry looked back to his task, panic beginning to overtake him. Did he really know what he was doing? It was ridiculous, thinking his blood had anything special enough to save her. He exhaled sharply at the anguish in his heart, the one that reminded him he’d lost her. “Come on, Elizabeth,” he whispered close to her face, still mixing their blood. His eyes caught fire again, her ashen face swimming in his vision. “Please. We’re one now. You have to come back.” A sob escaped him and he touched her face, gently, trying not to smear blood on her cheek. She was beautiful even in death, but the inner beauty that made her shine had disappeared, and it racked his body. He bowed his head on hers, weeping.

Then the sound, so faint he swore at first it was his mind playing tricks: a subtle intake of breath, low and raspy. He lifted his head, scanning over her, but her eyes hadn’t opened. “Elizabeth,” he rushed, touching her.

Another inhalation.

This time Doctor Ortiz heard it and bent to her, the whites of his eyes bright. “Holy Mother of God.” He checked her pulse, counting. Warily, he looked at Henry. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but whatever you’ve done, Mr. Clayton…”

“Is she…?”

“She’s alive.”

***

Still lifeless, still pallid.

Henry stared at Elizabeth.

She breathed with difficulty, but had a pulse. Her stab wound had healed over, too, more quickly than his own wounds used to heal. Only the slightest scar remained.

He sat in a carpeted chair beside her bed, in one of the only two examination rooms in the clinic, resting his clean and freshly bandaged hand on his knee. He’d been here for over two hours; they all had.

He’d carried her here shortly after her first breaths—and after many cries of joy from his neighbors, regardless of the fact that they had no idea how any of this was possible. Doctor Ortiz had ushered the crowd out of the waiting room adorned with posters about allergies and childhood vaccinations, pushing them out the entrance and into nighttime air, where they watched through the glass.

But hours had passed and nothing about her condition changed. She hadn’t so much as twitched a single muscle, hadn’t so much as flitted an eye beneath her lids. She was gone but here at the same time. Henry had even tried mixing more of his blood with hers, but it was too late.

After Doctor Ortiz had finally convinced him his blood would do nothing more for her, he stitched Henry’s hand and Arne left to retrieve his clothes. He sat beside her now, fully clothed and clean, and curse-free. Yet he felt worse than ever. He couldn’t move his attention away from her face, afraid to miss the moment she would wake—if she would wake. He willed it, sent her mental messages, praying that because they were one, she would receive them, wherever she was. And he tried not to doubt, tried not to wonder if her brain wasn’t alive while her body was because he had waited too long.