With a free hand, Claire pinched Leo’s nose closed and held his head still as she forced the liquid into his mouth. It dribbled over the sides of his cheeks, staining the pillow underneath. All the while, she chanted in her mind, It’s not a child. It’s not a child.
At last, the cup was empty and she sat back on her heels. The mantra in her mind ended. She felt cold on the inside. But it was too late. A dose of nightshade that high would kill anyone long before an antidote could be prepared.
“It’s not a child,” she whispered.
♘— He whimpered softly as the liquid flooded his mouth and he was forced to swallow or drown. She wanted him better, that’s why. He was being stubborn to Claire and she had no time for stubborn boys. It took only a few seconds for his world to spin, for the discomfort to burn and sear through him. “Anentet neu laith u cestus,” he breathed. His mother taught him to say it when he was scared. If anything were to happen, the guardians would make him light as a bird, free to soar and chirp and play among their graces. His head sunk deeper into the pillow and that image put him at peace as he took his last breath.
Though blank eyes stared up at the heavens, the small body jerked once before Leo’s stilled again. A thick green root tore through the boy’s heart and pushed aside muscle, skin, and fabric, fed by blood and ebbing life. Then did bloom a fiery red chrysanthemum as large as the organ it took root inside.
When it was done, the inferno that cooked within the boy start to cool and retreat within his empty core, then left the room through the cracks in the wood beneath him. It wormed deep into the ground and dispersed.
