The sound of Finn’s body hitting the permafrost wasn't a thud; it was the dry, hollow crack of a dead branch.
"Finn?" Marek’s voice didn't just break; it shattered. He fell to his knees, his hands hovering over the gray, shriveled husk that had been a nineteen-year-old boy seconds ago. "Finn! Breathe, damn you!"
But there were no lungs left to expand. I felt the boy's last spark of warmth dissipating inside my own chest, a stolen sun that made my skin glow with a sickly, pearlescent light.
"No... no, no, no," I whispered, my hands flying to my mouth. I could taste him. I could taste his childhood, his first hunt, his loyalty to Silas. It was sweet, and that sweetness made me want to vomit. "I didn't mean... I didn't mean to—"
"You monster!" A woman’s shriek tore through the blizzard. I
