Beneath Stained Glass Wings
She knows water as well as I do.
Except, she doesn’t know the hidden techniques. The tricks written in languages long since dead to this country. She doesn’t know how to manipulate blood.
I bite the inside of my cheek, the pain shocking my system, clearing out the worry and the anger and bringing the water around me into sharp focus. I feel my pulse. I feel the flow of my blood, the flow of the water behind me. And I feel Carita’s blood flow, too.
I grasp onto that flow and press into it, pushing spikes into her veins, crawling up her arms, her—
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