I crawled to Ian's feet, grabbed his ankle with trembling hands, and forced the words out.
"If it weren't for him, you'd already be dead! Let him go!"
Ian looked down at me, shaking and broken at his feet.
A twisted smile curled the corner of his mouth.
"Sure."
He pulled out his phone and tossed it at my knees.
"Record a video admitting you're a fraud. Then I'll let the old man go."
"Clara, don't — don't record it..."
Alaric's eyes were bloodshot, fixed on me, his head shaking over and over.
But before he could finish, Ian ripped the knife from Alaric's chest and plunged it down again, this time near the artery in his neck.
Blood erupted in a geyser, painting the air red.
I threw myself toward Alaric, every limb shaking, but Ian caught me and held me back.
"So that's a no, Clara? Then I guess the old man bleeds out today."
"I'll do it. I'll record it."
Ian watched the video and smiled, satisfied. He finally agreed to send Alaric to the hospital.
The ambulance had barely pulled up to the emergency entrance when a young nurse rushed over and shoved a thick stack of forms into my arms.
"Miss, the patient is critical. You need to go pay right now!"